


Say You Had It All

by geckoholic



Category: Voltron: Legendary Defender
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Background Relationships, Blow Jobs, Bottom Keith (Voltron), Breathplay, Consensual Kink, Emotional Baggage, Face Slapping, Friends With Benefits, Keith (Voltron) is Bad at Feelings, Light Dom/sub, M/M, Misunderstandings, Morning After, Orgasm Delay/Denial, Reconciliation, Rough Sex, Semi-Public Sex, Team as Family, Temporary Breakup, Verbal Humiliation
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-06-23
Updated: 2018-01-31
Packaged: 2018-11-18 01:19:12
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 22,012
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11280738
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/geckoholic/pseuds/geckoholic
Summary: Ever since college, Keith and Shiro have been best friends with benefits: no strings past the friendship, casual sex whenever they feel the itch, sometimes kinky, sometimes not. But now Keith might want more, and Shiro... well, KeiththinksShiro wants the opposite.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [yeison](https://archiveofourown.org/users/yeison/gifts).



> This is getting written for a trade and got way out of hand. Like, _way_ out of hand. Hence it getting posted in two parts. /o\ Although it shouldn't be too long before the second part follows, super pinky promise. The prompt was a friends with benefits scenario that takes the long way to the happy ending, basically, and we agreed to include a few kinks, so uh, hi, here we are. 
> 
> Beta-read by gitwrecked, amorremanet and lustyjustice. Thank you!! To sweetfanfics for the brainstorming help too. ♥ All remaining mistakes are mine.
> 
> Title is from "Company" by Tinashe.

As far as shitty diner jobs go, Keith's kind of hit the jackpot. Sure it’s still bussing tables and stinking like grease at the end of the day, and yes he gets into arguments with drunk customers and cheapskates looking for a discount, but the working atmosphere doesn’t leave any room for complaints. Right now he's standing outside in the middle of his shift, leaning against the wall, just far enough from the dumpsters that the smell can be ignored, and staring at the blue-pink-orange evening sky. Vito believes in equal treatment of his employees, in all aspects, and so everyone gets smoking breaks regardless of whether or not they actually do smoke. Vito also doesn't yell, he feeds them excessively, doesn't cut corners on benefits, and never makes a fuss about sick days or vacation requests. 

Inside, things are just getting busy; it's a little past 7 PM, and the first nine-to-fivers are rolling in, having gotten home and promptly decided they don't want to spend the evening in front of the stove. Technically Keith still has five more minutes before he's expected back inside, but he's not _doing_ anything here and contemplates heading in early when he hears footsteps approaching up the alley. He pushes himself off the wall and peers around the dumpster. Not many people are trying to get through the employee entrance.

Shiro waves at him when their eyes meet, rolling his shoulder to readjust the straps of the the worn leather briefcase he refuses to get rid of. Keith meets him halfway, and he wraps both arms around Keith's waist. The gesture is unusually possessive, and it sends a hopeful shiver up Keith's spine. 

“Hey stranger,” Shiro says, nuzzles Keith's neck, and the way Keith relaxes against him is basically an automatic response at this point. “Can I take you home tonight?”

It's one of those days, then. Usually Keith would complain and swat him away, or at least shoot him a glare and call him corny, but he doesn't; he leans up to kiss Shiro instead, slow and lazy. They haven't done this in... hell, weeks, and Keith's needy enough that he won't ruin it by picking a fight. 

"Sure you can, in about – " Keith wriggles in Shiro's arms and pulls his phone from the back pocket of his jeans for dramatic effect, even though he knows perfectly well what time it is " – five hours. You know when my shift ends."

Shiro looks down at him with a pout – it shouldn't look as adorable as it does, on such a giant bear of a man – but he's still smiling. "Of course I do; I was trying to, you know, set a mood.” 

At that, Keith does reach up and swat at his chin, and Shiro laughs. 

“Any of the others here yet?” he asks, and Keith shakes his head, while he lets Shiro thread their fingers together and lead him inside. 

 

***

 

Friendship, as a concept, is a little weird. Not in a bad way; it ties people together who started out strangers, and it's random, unlike the family you’re born into. Not like Keith knows much about family. Some things he'll just assume. 

And in the space where other people have family, he’s got four losers who show up to keep him company every Friday night. Right now Lance is delivering an enthusiastic retelling of a misunderstanding with a customer, to a less than captive audience: Pidge is openly looking bored, Hunk at least gives it his best pretense, likely worried anything else might have a negative effect on his sex life later tonight. Meanwhile Shiro keeps periodically looking up from the stack of student papers he brought to grade, tapping the fingers of his prosthetic on the plastic surface of the table and nodding acknowledgment, and Keith himself has the valid excuse of getting up to hand out orders whenever Vito shouts his name from the kitchen. 

Returning from one such interruption, it takes Keith a moment to realize that the topic has shifted, from one of Lance's staples to another: girls. He's been with Hunk since what feels like roundabout kindergarten, but that never stops him from _flirting_. His attempts at flirting never go beyond that – he needs attention like oxygen but he's as faithful as a Golden Retriever – but they make for excellent entertainment. Or at least Lance thinks they do. 

“She was like _butter_ in my hands,” he declares, nodding enthusiastically. “All I'd have had to do was say the word.”

Hunk looks at him with fond exasperation, which is his default. “But of course you didn't.”

By the way of a reply, Lance leans over for a quick peck, producing a groan from Pidge. Every once in a while Keith wonders why she even still associates with them, seeing how they all seem to keep her on the edge of drowning herself in the nearest sink due to sheer frustration. 

“I continuously mourn the loss of your sexual prowess on behalf of womankind as a whole,” she mocks, and after a moment of genuine distaste – Keith can relate, she's like their collective little sister – Lance recovers into a grin. 

“You better,” he says, then leans back against Hunk, head on his shoulder. 

From the other end of the table, Shiro glances at each of them with the look of someone who spends his days wrangling teenagers and has realized his own circle of friends is more exhausting than that. He's only two years older than the rest of them, sans Pidge, who is a year below the rest of the group. But he gives off this general air of authority that commands respect – whenever he's not firing off corny pickup lines, that is – and people tend to sit up a little straighter when he comes into a room. 

It's that air of authority that makes it all the more hilarious when he smiles, pats Keith's knee with his prosthetic hand and says, “Between the loss of you and Lance, there should probably be a national day of mourning, then. Those poor, deprived women. It's a tragedy.”

The other three break into whoops and laughter, while Shiro looks smug and Keith chokes on his lemonade, just so manages to splutter out, "Well, Shiro, you're not an entirely terrible lay either." 

The looks that prompts from the others make his face burn an even deeper shade of red than coughing up his drink. He and Shiro aren't together, not like Lance and Hunk, but everyone knows they're sleeping together on and off and have been doing so since college. Pidge likes to theorize that it's due to an inability to commit and see things through on Keith's part, due to an unstable childhood, but Pidge was raised in a happy nuclear family of four and has a degree in computer science, not psychology, so what does she know. Either way, the fact that he and Shiro will occasionally take the edge off their singledom is well known, rarely commented on, and generally accepted. 

Shiro looks at him apologetically, but not really contrite. “Sorry,” he says. “In my defense, it was kinda meant as a compliment?”

Not quite ready to forgive and forget yet, Keith coughs some more and rises to his feet. “Table six looks a bit discontent, I better ask Vito how much longer their food is gonna take.”

He does as announced, but not without brushing his hand over the small of Shiro's back as he gets up, briefly weaving underneath fabric and enjoying the way Shiro's breathing changes for a second. 

 

*** 

 

Shiro is the only one who hangs around until closing time; always the first to arrive and the last to leave. He's sitting sideways on a bar stool when Keith reemerges from the kitchen after cleanup, and rises to his feet at Keith's nod towards the door. He captures Keith's hand as he passes, and follows Keith out of the back entrance the same way he entered a few hours prior. 

What's different is how he discards his briefcase just outside the door and crowds Keith against the wall next to it without preamble, kissing him like he's starving. Keith is too stunned to resist, blood rushing south fast enough to make him a bit dizzy, and it's all he can do to wrap his arms around Shiro's neck and let himself be pushed against the rough stone. 

“Whoa,” he says when Shiro draws back, allowing them both to come up for air. “What's gotten into you?”

Shiro leans in again to mouth at his neck, answers between nips. “I wanted to do this all evening.” He seals his mouth to a spot just between Keith's ear and sucks, leaves it wet and tender. “Hell, I've wanted to do this for _days_.”

He pushes up closer against Keith, bodies flush, brings his good arm up to press against Keith's windpipe, and ohh, so it's actually one of _those_ nights – not just sex but _this_ , an edge of violence, a sprinkling of command and submission. Shiro doesn't put any kind of force into it yet but it’s an invitation. Keith could shake his head and walk away right now, tell him he's not in the mood, and it'd change nothing between them, wouldn't cause any hard feelings. Maybe they'd hang out and Shiro would go home at some point, or he'd stay and they'd have regular vanilla sex. Shiro doesn't demand; he suggests.

Except Keith _is_ in the mood. He's rarely not, frankly. 

Part of the reason for that is that he _loves_ this Shiro – the one who trusts Keith enough to ask for what he wants, like this, through actions, as well as verbally; the one who's confident enough in what they are to take once in a while, instead of constantly giving other people his all. 

Another reason is the slight edge of violence that sets Keith's blood on fire. Like how Shiro removes his arm from Keith's neck just to replace it with his hand, sitting there, thumb gently caressing the dip between his collarbones, but ready to do so much more. 

“What do you say?” Shiro prompts, and there's an edge of impatience to it, exasperation, because Keith gets lost in his head so easily. He forgets to speak. He forgets that he's supposed to answer, to confirm, to give explicit and unmistakable consent or be clear about what he doesn't want. Those are the rules. 

“Yes,” breathes Keith, before the thought gets lost again. He casts a nervous glance around the alley, but they're alone. “Fuck, yeah.” 

Shiro's hands briefly closes around Keith's neck, cutting his airflow off for mere seconds, and then he's retreating a step with a wolfish grin. He reaches for the button and zipper on Keith's jeans, and undoes them with quick practiced movements. He pulls them down to Keith’s ankles, and does the same with is underwear. He takes another step back to enjoy the view while Keith stands there, both palms pressed flat to the wall, and resists the urge to cover himself. This doesn't count yet; they haven't had the talk yet, haven't gone through their routine, which means he could opt out of this without stopping _everything_. But even has he feels his cheeks heat with embarrassment, he registers that Shiro's positioned himself to shield Keith's body from view, listening for anyone who might randomly walk into the alley. And that means he's already taken charge, taken responsibility. It means Keith is _safe_. 

Seconds tick by, feeling like centuries. Shiro's gaze travels down Keith's body, to where his cock has taken definite interest, and he sinks to his knees. 

The blowjob is quick and inelegant, but effective; Shiro takes him nearly to the hilt, then pulls back all the way to lick up and down the shaft, close his lips around the head, swallow him again. He bobs his head and the Keith is positive that the wet noises he makes will be heard two streets over. But he doesn't complain; he rests his head on the cold stone and discards every thought that isn't related to how good this feels, how gorgeous Shiro looks bathed in the dim yellow light of the street lamp a few feet away, peering up to hold his eyes while he voluntarily all but chokes himself on Keith's cock. Not long now and Keith's going to come, and he imagines how it's going to feel when Shiro swallows around him, or maybe he'll pull off just in time and let Keith come on – 

Shiro pinches the base of Keith's cock so suddenly that it makes Keith yelp and jump, and then he's on his feet, kissing Keith with the taste of Keith's precome still on his tongue. Keith's brain is so awash in arousal that it takes him a few moment to register that Shiro's dragging Keith's pants back into place, tugging him away. 

“Ah no,” he say, grinning, and pats the front of Keith's jeans. “You didn't think it was gonna be so easy, did you?” 

Then he laughs – the real deal, head thrown back, vicious and pleased with himself – and takes Keith's hand to lead him out of the alley. It's usually a fifteen minute walk from the diner to Keith's apartment, twenty if it's done as a leisurely stroll. 

Tonight, they make it there in less than ten. 

 

***

 

As soon as they've closed the front door behind them and eliminated the risk of unintentionally giving the neighbors a show, Shiro's hands are _everywhere_. His good hand travels up Keith's chest – much to Keith's disdain above fabric – and rests around side of his neck, pulling him in for a deep, filthy kiss. The other is shoved down Keith's jeans and set to the rather easy task of getting him fully hard again. It's all Keith can do to brace himself on his hallway drawer, push his crotch into the unforgiving grip of Shiro's prosthetic and rock against him while kissing back just as urgently. 

It had been a bit of a dance to overcome Shiro's reservations about touching Keith with the prosthetic. It's cutting edge, and swallowed the lion's share of the considerable settlement Shiro got after the accident. The metal fingers flex and grab and bend just like the real thing, hidden under a glove of smooth synthetic fiber, designed for fine motor skills. Even so, Shiro was... reluctant to use them in this context. Keith supposes that made sense, after all there's a difference between dropping a glass because he miscalculated the pressure needed and inadvertently squishing his best-friend-slash-fuck-buddy's private parts. With time, however, they coaxed him out of those reservations, and now Shiro uses the prosthetic on purpose whenever he wants the _threat_ of too much force. The prosthetic is a physical manifestation of the fact that none of this is going to go Keith's way; Shiro will decide when and how he's getting off. 

For that very same reason, Shiro pulls his hand out of Keith’s pants as soon as he’s hard again and steps back to admire his handy work. A plethora of curses builds in Keith's throat, but he swallows them all unsaid; he knows from experience that mouthing off won't get him anywhere but prompting Shiro to draw this out further. 

Their eyes meet, and one corner of Shiro's mouth lifts in a teasing, self-satisfied smirk. He makes a shushing noise, steps closer again and puts the pad of his index finger against Keith's lips. Keith attempts to chase it, suck it into his mouth – Shiro _likes_ that, but it's gone before he's got the chance. Shiro's hands get busy elsewhere, working Keith's jacket off his shoulders and then lifting his shirt. On autopilot, Keith lifts his arm, and Shiro pulls it off over his head, then goes to work on his jeans. His hand brushes past the bulge in them too often to be pure coincidence, and Keith whines; he outright moans when Shiro manages to work them open and then none-too-gently shoves jeans and boxers down in one go.

“Sorry,” Shiro says, sounding about as sincere as a third-tier car salesman, and gives him a few quick, rough strokes that only make things worse. They haven't done much yet, and Keith's already ready to crawl out of his skin, his whole head filled with _need_ and _want_ and helpless desperation. 

In short, he's exactly where Shiro wants him, whenever he gets like this. And see, even though Shiro's the more emotionally stable between them by, like, a landslide, one of his faults is that he sits on his darker moods too much. Pressure from his strict upbringing, his responsibilities, and the aftermath of the accident tend to build without release, and when it finally does spill over, he needs Keith just as much as Keith needs him. None of this is about control, and it's not even really about Shiro's desires; everything they do is pre-negotiated, and Keith was the one who got to list his wishes and veto other suggestions. He was the one who suggested this in the first place, edging toward something definitively more than vanilla. 

Keith bites his lips; he's losing focus. Shiro seems to have noticed, as he's currently staring at him with a calculating tilt to his head. 

“Hey, stay with me,” he says, and this time the smile is real, the look in his eyes conveying reassurance and concern. For now, it’s an innocent reminder, but if he has to say it again, it will be a warning. 

Keith doesn't argue. He nods, and takes a deep breath. Shiro taps his thigh, and he looks down, bends to shed shoes and socks, and steps out of his pants. Now fully naked, he quirks an eyebrow at Shiro, waiting for the next command. 

Once more, Shiro steps back, his expression serious. “You remember the rules? Your safeword?” 

“Yes,” Keith says, rolling his eyes. He knows this part is important, for Shiro more than for him – he just wants to get started, while Shiro insists on explicit consent and acknowledgment – but it's always the same exchange, the same answer to the same questions. “My safeword is _red_.” 

“Good,” says Shiro. He reaches out and curls a hand around Keith's neck, drawing him forward, and seals their lips together for a quick, filthy kiss. 

Shiro licks his lips after, and Keith wants to dive back in, bite his lower lip, wants him _back_. But Shiro's already busy undressing himself, faced away, neatly folding each piece of clothing he sheds and depositing it on the coffee table. When he turns back around, Keith's eyes fall towards his crotch, mouth watering at the sight of him. He makes to sink to his knees, but Shiro shakes his head. 

“No,” he says, decisive, voice hard and unyielding. “Are you really so much of a slut that you can't control yourself long enough to wait for direction?” 

It shouldn't, but the tone combined with the insult goes straight to his cock, makes Keith's pulse racket up and blinks up at Shiro, smirking. 

Shiro tsks at him and pushes him against the wall with a hand on his chest. The prosthetic fixes Keith's head in place, gripping his jaw, while the Shiro reaches up with his other hand to press at Keith’s lips with two fingers until Keith opens his mouth and wets them.

Without letting up pressure on Keith's jaw, Shiro reaches between his legs, ignoring his aching erection, and pushes two fingers against his rim. He leans in close enough that Keith can feel his breath, coming out hot against the side of his neck. “Don't start anything you aren't prepared to finish, you goddamn brat.” 

Keith is actually tempted to snark back this time, but then Shiro breaches him, just the pad of a finger, but things are moving too fast, and the part of his brain that's involved in forming coherent sentences shuts off. His legs widen almost off their own accord, making his stance that much less steady. 

“Always so _needy_ ,” Shiro grouses, but there's awe mixed in with the disapproval, and they've talked about that, about how Shiro sometimes envies Keith's ability to give up control like this. Keith tries to explain that it's because of the trust they share, and that he wouldn't hand himself over to anyone else in this way, but he's never sure if Shiro really believes it. 

The grip on Keith's jaw intensifies. “Second strike. Quit thinking. You're here to take what I give you, and you focus on me, understood?” 

Keith tries to nod, with what little wiggle room Shiro's giving him. Shiro frowns and lets go. “Bedroom. I'll join you in a few minutes, and I expect you to be prepped and lubed by the time I get there.”

He turns and marches into the direction of the bathroom, and Keith can't be sure whether he's just collecting supplies in advance – washcloth, a glass of water, that kind of stuff – or if he needs a minute. Either way, Keith hurries to comply. He heads into the bedroom, digs out lube and condoms and positions himself, back against the headrest, legs wide, doing as instructed. He's on the third finger, pressing right where it's good and moaning ceaselessly, when Shiro appears in the doorway. 

“Look at you,” he says, and his tone is back to business, that carefully calculated mix of toneless and mocking. “Making a mess of yourself, wet and filthy, and putting yourself on display. Do you have any shame?” 

Keith makes sure his next moan is extra loud, extra dirty, and smirks up at him. He removes his fingers and spreads his legs wider, wriggling his hips, doing his best to look shamelessly inviting. 

It must be working, because he can hear Shiro suck in a breath between his teeth, right before he climbs up on the bed with him. He helps himself to a condom, and then he's finally there; arms braced on the headboard on either side of Keith's head and lining himself up, cock sinking right in inch by agonizing inch. Keith's breath is coming in short, desperate pants by the time he's all the way inside and pauses, finally letting Keith adjust to the intrusion. 

He looks down, smiles. “Ready?” 

Keith nods, and the first few thrusts steal what's left of his self-control; the breathless moans stop being for show, and he's saying Shiro's name over and over, a plea and a prayer, the only thing left in his thoughts beside need. His hands curl in the sheets, rucking up the fabric, and he gasps when Shiro shifts to change the angle. Both of his hands wrap around Keith's thighs, low, just a hand's with above the knee. Spreading him the way he likes, keeping him just where he wants him as he drives himself in deep before pulling all the way back out and slamming inside again. Keith's eyes fall closed, and he just lets his body be rocked with the force of each long push inside. 

After so many years of this they fall together so well it's routine and almost effortless. Shiro knows what he likes; he knows what Shiro likes. This is also routine by now, as much as it could ever be, in the sense that their boundaries are looted out and marked off. The idea that there might be a time when he can't have this anymore, when Shiro's moved on to someone else, is enough to spark wild panic in him at any given time, and right now it makes his breathing quicken further, makes him desperately blink to chase it away. 

And of course, that doesn't go unnoticed. Shiro reacts like he's supposed to when Keith's accumulated enough warnings: the slap to his face isn't painful, doesn't sting too much, done with Shiro’s good hand. But it pulls him from his thoughts, and that's its purpose. A quick reprimand to coax him out of his head, make him stay with what's happening around him. 

"Keith, look at me," Shiro snarls, making eye contact when Keith's eyes fly open. “Pay attention.”

Keith nods, hands coming up without conscious command, clawing at Shiro's side, wordlessly asking him to stay where he is, to not go away, to continue, but it's too late. He's pulling out, and Keith whines with the loss. 

A few seemingly endless seconds pass between them, intentional torture, before Shiro huffs an exaggerated sigh. "Hands and knees,” he commands. “Ass in the air. I don't want to look at your face if you’re going to keep getting distracted."

Keith positively scrambles into the new position, all the more desperate for having been scolded. Shiro lets him wait again, then reaches without warning between Keith's legs to stroke along his cock, making him jump. Then he pulls Keith's legs wider apart, almost too wide to maintain a stable position, and spreads his ass cheeks with both hands, thumbs moving inwards to brush past his hole. 

"Oh what a pretty picture you make, so open and eager for me," he says, and the praise is so much more unsettling than the teasing, the insults. Keith whines. 

Shiro dips a finger inside, the other hand stroking Keith's lower back. Then his touch is gone altogether, and Keith can feel him the bed dip with his movements as he lines himself up again. Just as before, the first thrust is slow but merciless, only stopping once he's buried to the hilt. Once again, he stops there, one arm wrapping around Keith's middle and hauling him up so they're pressed together chest to back. 

"Touch yourself,” he says, low, breathes it into Keith's ear. “Make some noise. Show me how desperate you are for me."

Keith rests his weight against Shiro, one hand shooting back to steady himself against Shiro's body, give himself enough purchase so he can move his hips a little, meet his thrusts, and the other wrapping around his own cock. 

The combined sensation is too much, and he comes only moments later, shouting out his pleasure like Shiro told him. It's only made better when Shiro pushes him back down, presses his face into the cushions and slams inside, again and again, selfish little bursts that don't do much for Keith but help him get off as well. Keith's barely with it again when Shiro collapses half on top of him, idly carding his fingers through Keith's hair instead of holding him down. 

Shiro rearranges them so they're spooning, then moves away, and when he's back it's with the washcloth he brought from the bathroom. He cleans them both up, then lies back down, kissing along the back of Keith's neck. “You okay?” 

“Hmm,” Keith replies on a yawn, exhausted, already skirting the edges of sleep. “I'm good. Thank you.” 

 

***

 

The world swims back into focus with a bit of a lag the next morning. He rubs his eyes and buries deeper into Shiro's warmth, presses his face to Shiro's chest, and hums in contentment when Shiro leans down to press his face into Keith's hair, all the while closing his arms more tightly around him. 

“I thought you weren't going to wake until noon,” Shiro says, voice muffled, but the tint of amusement is still discernible. He's an early riser. Keith considers that one of his less likable features, although the fact that Shiro usually stays in bed until Keith returns to the realm of the living means he can't really complain. 

Well. Strictly speaking he can't complain about _anything_ , given that they're not _together_. 

That thought puts a rather swift halt to his morning afterglow, and he twists out of Shiro's arms and sits up, trying to keep change in mood off his face. He smiles. “Breakfast?” 

Shiro frowns briefly but doesn't say anything, then smiles back. “Sure.” 

He stays behind while Keith swings his legs out of bed and blindly feels for his bedside table and a fresh pair of boxers. Shower might be a good idea, but his stomach is growling already, and he chances a glance to the bedside clock when he stands and slides his boxers into place. Just past 10:30 AM. 

He stretches his arms out over his head, wincing when a joint in his arm pops. Behind him, Shiro snickers, and Keith takes the time to pick up his vacated pillow and lob it at Shiro's head before he pulls on a t-shirt and pads into the kitchen. That's his domain, when they're having meals together – Shiro is the kind of person who'd manage to mess up boiling water, and would probably set the kitchen on fire in attempt to make any breakfast food more elaborate than cereal. Keith has not tested either theory yet. He's known Shiro since they were teenagers and he values his life and his interior furnishing, thank you very much. 

Shiro walks into the room when Keith's already got a handful of pancakes ready on a plate on the counter, and Keith luxuriates in the sight for a moment. His hair is mussed and sticking up every which way, sweatpants riding low on his hips, shirtless and barefoot. As Keith watches – stares, really – Shiro digs a hand past the waistband of his sweats and scratches a spot low on his stomach By the time Keith remembers he has a _face_ and the polite thing would be to look him in the _eyes_ , Shiro's grinning. 

“Shut up,” Keith warns preemptively and points to the plate. “Help yourself to those instead. You know where to find the syrup. Orange juice is in the fridge. Milk, too, but I recommend checking that before you pour it.” 

Shiro rolls his eyes – you would not find possibly sour milk in _his_ fridge – and ruffles Keith's hair as he walks past. Being preoccupied with the next pancake, Keith postpones his retaliation. There's squabbling, and there's cooking, and he wasn't raised to waste food. Burning a perfectly good pancake because he was too busy tickling Shiro for his transgressions would fall into that category. 

Adventurer that he is, Shiro opens the fridge and goes for the milk, giving it an experimental sniff. Apparently not quite satisfied yet he also takes a sip, then nods to himself and sets it on the table behind him. There hasn't been an apartment of Keith's that Shiro hasn’t helped him move into, so he doesn't need further instruction to find the plates and silverware to set the table. 

Four more pancakes later, Keith turns the stove off and puts the pan in the sink, then sits down opposite Shiro. He's just about to take his first bite when he notices that Shiro's got his head cocked, browns drawn together in a frown, watching him.

Keith sets his fork back down. “What is it?” 

“Nothing,” Shiro says, visibly reining his expression into something more neutral, and smiles. It doesn't look dishonest or fake, but it makes the knot in Keith's stomach grow a little bigger. “I just thought we should-“

That's as far as he gets, because the Star Trek ring tone of his cell phone sounds from a little ways away and he jumps off his chair and rushes into the bedroom. He puts his hand over the speaker on his way back into the kitchen and mouths Lance's name. 

“Of course not,” he assures, and steals another bite of his pancake without sitting back down. The next words come out around a mouthful of food. “I'll be right over.” 

Keith sighs and makes to stand as well, but Shiro shakes his head, causing him to remain in that awkward position, half upright, half still sitting, until Shiro ends the call. 

“Don't worry about it, he just forgot his key _again_ and Hunk left for a conference early this morning.” He waves at Keith's full plate, the pancake he barely started eating. “I can head over real quick. You stay here and finish your breakfast.” 

He presses a kiss to side of Keith's head and pads back into the bedroom to get dressed, and even though the last thing Keith wants right now is to be alone, he sits back down and picks at his pancakes, and even manages to smile and wave when Shiro marches out the door. 

 

*** 

 

Keith spends another fifteen minutes shoveling bits of pancake around on his plate before he decides he's lost his appetite for good, seals the leftovers with saran wrap, and stores them in the fridge. He puts the radio on low volume and sits down on his couch with a book, hopes the combination makes a good enough distraction to silence the spiral that's started up inside his head. He does the math; Hunk and Lance's place is about twenty minutes away by car, if that, Lance will be nervous and babble on for a bit, so Keith assumes Shiro should be back within the hours. And once he returns, they can continue whatever conversation he was in the process of launching when they were interrupted. 

The words on the page of his book blend together, every word he reads registering but not being processed. He mentally sifts through their talks over the past couple of weeks, trying to guess what's on Shiro's mind. 

_I just thought we should..._ Should what? There's so may turns that could have taken, but maybe Keith's ignoring the simplest answer. Could it be the start of a breakup talk? _I just thought we should talk about ending this. Stop seeing each other. Go back to being friends. Meet other people._

He looks at the digital clock on the stove. About forty minutes since Shiro left. When he looks back down to his book, the words are blurred, and he presses his knuckles against his eyes. There's nothing to cry about. They'll still be friends, that much he's sure about, and the sex has always been a bonus. It wouldn't even technically be a breakup; they’re not even together. 

Still, the last thing Keith wants right now is for Shiro to come back and find him curled up on the couch, all puffy red eyes and freaking out for no good reason, and so Keith earmarks his book, rises to his feet and goes to search for his cell phone. Once that's located, he plops back down on the couch, turns the music up, and sends Shiro a quick message. 

[Not feeling so well. No use in you coming back today. Let's talk tomorrow or something.]

The response is near immediate; either he hasn't left Lance's yet, or he's already downstairs and was about to come back up. Fuck, Keith hopes it's the former. [You sure? I could swing by the store and get you some instant chicken soup or something.]

Keith rolls his eyes at the screen. [Chicken soup as comfort food only works if it's made from scratch, and you're banned from the kitchen, remember?] he types. [And yes, I'm sure. I'll be fine, you still have some grading to do this weekend anyway, right?]

Shiro's reply takes a little longer this time, like he's got to decide if he wants to keep arguing first. If he did, he obviously deemed it futile, because his next reply simply reads, [OK, feel better. And call if you need me.] 

[Will do], Keith texts back, and then he does indeed curl up on the couch, pressed to the backrest. He doesn't start crying again at least, but it's a close call. 

 

*** 

 

Keith does not call Shiro the next day. Or the day after that, for that matter. He also doesn't answer Shiro's calls, though that's more by accident; he's in the shower when Shiro calls on Monday evening after his shift, and somehow the prospect of calling him back and explaining that he didn't miss it on purpose seems daunting. Keith tackles that problem like he tackles most of them: he ignores its existence until it becomes unavoidable. 

Sooner than he realizes, it's Friday yet again, and when Keith turns away from the counter still deep in conversation with Vito, he nearly drops the order he'd just picked up. 

Shiro sits at their usual table, a generous half an hour earlier than usual. He's smiling Keith's way, hopeful and a little hurt, a little confused, and yeah, that's on Keith. And it's not like Keith expected him not to show up or anything like that, he _knew_ Shiro'd be here tonight, but he's still at a loss. Wants to bail into the kitchen and ask Vito to keep him there until his shift is over, citing a sudden and unexpected stomach ache or catastrophe or... something. He doesn't, though; Keith might be a coward when it comes to dealing with complicated emotions, but he's not cruel. 

He sits down next to Shiro once he's served the food, torn between wanting to cry, wanting to apologize, and wanting to scream at Shiro to say his piece and be done with it. 

“Are you feeling better?” is what Shiro does say, and Keith blinks at him, not quite grasping what he means. 

In truth, it's not the first time Shiro’s had to wrangle one of Keith's tactical retreats. They've gotten less frequent in recent years, both having settled and grown up a bit, and Keith having learned to trust that Shiro won't leave. And he still does believe in that; no matter how this shakes out, he won't _lose_ Shiro. The nature of their relationship may change, as it has before, and they'll come out the other end as they have before. Thing is, Keith had been hoping. He'd dared to want more. He'd been thinking about changing their status quo. He just hadn't gotten around to figuring out how exactly he should bring that up. 

Clearly, Shiro charged ahead of him on that one. Or maybe that's the wrong analogy, seeing how Shiro marched in the opposite direction. 

Right now, Shiro's watching him, patient, a fond smile pulling at his lips, one eyebrow a little bit quirked. Waiting him out, like so many times before. And Keith remembers that he asked him a question, which means some sort of reply is expected. 

“Huh?” Keith asks, because he still doesn't understand, and he doesn't want to acknowledge the large, glowing neon pink elephant in the room. 

Shiro sighs. “You weren't well,” he says. “After I left.” 

The text message. Keith managed to forget what he actually wrote, and kinda feels the urge to hit his head against the nearest sturdy surface. His cheeks grow hot with embarrassment. “Ah. That. Yeah, I just had a bad day. Nothing serious. I'm fine now.” 

It’s s a lie that rids him of the obvious excuse for blocking contact all week, and from the way Shiro's face falls, he’s caught that as well. And because he's the functional adult of the two of them, he stops dancing around aforementioned elephant. “Listen, if I've done anything that – “ 

“No,” Keith interrupts him, and his next train of thought is instinctual and takes off with him before he can stop it in its tracks. 

If admits what had – well, has – him so freaked out, then they'll talk about it. Shiro will either laugh a bit and lace their fingers together and pull Keith's head against his shoulder, or he will avert his gaze and bite his lip and confirm that, yeah, Keith's right, he was going to suggest they stop their extracurricular activities and go back to simply being friends. Which, again, not the end of the world? but... Keith can't hear those words. He can't listen to Shiro saying them. And the way to make sure that doesn't happen is saying them first. _I just thought we should..._

“We should stop, uh,” he starts, then clears his throat. His hands are suddenly sweaty, and he wipes them on his jeans before he continues. “We should stop having sex. You know. All of that. Just be friends again, and see other people.” 

Shiro's eyes narrow, and Keith sees more than hears him inhale. “That's what you want?” 

There's next to no inflection in the words. They're mechanical, and Keith knows Shiro well enough to understand that's a defense mechanism; Shiro goes blank when the other option is being too expressive, revealing more than he can stand. Shit. _Shit shit shit._ Keith hurt him. He pissed him off. There's something going on here that he doesn't want Keith to see, and it's awful. This isn’t supposed to happen between them, not anymore. 

But the cat is out of the bag now, and there’s no going back. Keith has already bled for this. He spent all week being terrified of this exact moment, so much so that knowing for sure, forcing a decision, seems like it lifts a bit of the weight off his chest. It's best for both of them. Shiro was never the type to just casually fuck around anyway. Keith is doing him a favor. 

“Yes,” he says, with as much conviction as he can muster. “Yes, that's what I want.” 

Shiro shifts on his chair, away from Keith, even if it's just a small movement, nearly imperceptible. He nods. “Okay. Just friends, like before.” 

Keith somehow dredges up the strength to smile. _He's doing him a favor._ It doesn't get returned. Shiro reaches for the menu – even though he's always ordered one of the same three meals every Friday for the past year or so – and stoically studies the offers. 

Keith rises to his feet and gets back to work, and he does find excuses to hide in the kitchen for the better part of the evening. 

 

***

 

The following Monday afternoon, he's fiddling with the milkshake machine when Pidge walks into the diner and plops down on the nearest bar stool with a long-suffering sigh. Keith throws her a quick smile over his shoulder and checks around for new customers that require his attention, before abandoning the stupid machine and walking around the counter to sit down next to her. He's got an idea as to why she's here, and part of him finds it profoundly unfair that she's pinning him down at work, thereby cutting off his escape routes. Which might be exactly the reason why she _is_ doing it here, and in person. 

One elbow on the counter, she rests her chin on her hand and squints at him. “What did you do?” 

On instinct, Keith wants to jump to the defense. He swallows. She most likely doesn't mean it as an accusation. That's not like her. She'll just want to know what happened so she can try and fix it. “Why do you think _I_ did something?” 

“Because Shiro was the one with the kicked puppy expression on Friday,” she says, calm and patient, like she's laying out a math problem. “And he was staring after you every time you fled into the kitchen while you couldn't meet his eyes even once.” 

Well. Okay. She sure is observant. “We – “ 

And there he stops, because what should he call it? They weren't together, so they didn't break up. They're still friends – fuck, Keith hopes they're still friends, he doesn't know what he'd do otherwise – and it seems a little crass to just tell her they agreed to stop fucking. 

Her expression softens, and she reaches out to touch his arm, rests her hand there. “I see.” 

Keith closes his eyes at the contact. It's nice. Comforting. “I think we'll be okay. I hope so, anyway. But I'm sorry if we pissed on the mood a little bit.” 

She waves her other hand, dismissive. “Don't you worry about us. We're worried about _you_. Both of you, but.” Another sigh, and a frown. Pidge can do science. Words are harder for her, and ohh, Keith can relate to that one. He waits her out. “Promise me you're not just doing this because you convinced yourself you're not worth the effort? Or that he deserves better? Or because you got scared?” 

All of the above and none of the above, but he doesn't have the emotional vocabulary to explain that to her. “I think he was going to do it anyway. I just got there first.” 

Out loud, that doesn't even make sense to him, and yeah, sure enough, her expression shifts a little closer to exasperation in response. “What makes you-“ she starts, then pauses and hops off the stool instead. “You know what? I won't ask you to justify yourself. If that's the way you feel, I'm sure you have your reasons. But we’re worried. _I'm_ worried. You and me, we're both... well, neither of us really speaks proper human, I guess.” 

She nods to herself, smiling awkwardly, and motions for him to step closer. He rolls his eyes, but he does, bends down so she can pull him into a quick hug. 

Once they part, she mock-glares at him, face angled downward so she can do it over the rim of her glasses and all. “We love you. Both of you. Don't make us pick sides.” 

Keith shakes his head, and that at least he means one hundred percent. “The point of this is that we _can_ stay friends. That's what I want.” 

Pidge looks at him, head cocked, knowing, but she doesn't argue. Still smiling, she reaches out to squeeze his arm again. “Okay, so call him. _Be_ friends.” 

Then she climbs onto the counter to steal a brightly colored, disgustingly sweet lollipop from the glass by the register and unwraps it while making herself comfortable. He mutters under his breath about his friends being overbearing and annoying, and she just grins and watches him go back to cursing out the milk shake machine. 

They're done talking, but she stays for another hour, nudging his shoulder whenever a new customer enters and pointing with the lollipop whenever an already seated one asks for a refill or the bill. 

 

***

 

Work doesn't become much busier as the day goes by, just normal slow business for a weekday. It gives Keith plenty of time to roll things over in his head; too much time, maybe. He keeps going in circles about what he's going to do about Shiro, and in situations like these he can only trust half the thoughts that shoot through his brain. The idea that he's a nuisance to whoever he gets close to is always persistent, and he's long since worked out the origin of that particular mental roadblock. But he knows Pidge has a point. 

Keith's life, by and large, lacks consistency. That’s not a new development; being shuffled around the system since he was about five taught him a lot of things, but being emotionally stable and building healthy attachments? Not necessarily one of them. He’s tanked friendships over that before. 

And he doesn't _want_ to tank his relationship with Shiro – any of them, really – over this. That was the whole point of preempting his breakup speech. And sabotaging that now by staying away from him altogether would be both counterproductive and unnecessary. 

Back home, after he's spent a good twenty minutes in front of some political talk show, poking at microwaved lasagna without actually taking a bite, Keith lands at a decision. He shoves said lasagna back into the fridge and paces through the kitchen for an additional five minutes before he pulls out his phone and hits Shiro's number on speed dial. 

Shiro answers the call on the third ring. “Hey,” he says, sounding soft and relieved and not exactly surprised. The familiar warm smile is all but audible in his voice; if he's harboring any resentment over the rejection then the relief seems to edge that out. “How are you?” 

“Do you want to do something?” Keith asks, rushing right ahead, and hopes the words don't come out as stilted as they feel rolling off his tongue. Hopes that Shiro will know he means them. “Go out, have some food and catch a movie maybe? I don't know.” He takes a deep breath and lowers his voice to just above a whisper, tentative, almost ashamed. “I miss you.” 

“I miss you too,” Shiro says, and his voice doesn't waver at all. “And sure. How about I come by right now and pick you up, and we'll go from there?” 

Keith nods, relieved, only belatedly remembering that this is a _phone call_. “Yeah. I'll be waiting downstairs.”

 

***

 

The first few minutes are awkward as hell. Keith gets into the passenger seat and doesn't meet Shiro's gaze, stares in turns out the window and at his hands. Said hands are sweaty, and he's starting to wonder whether this would have been a beat-one-off-before-you-leave-the-house situation, because every time he does chance a glance in Shiro's direction he's picturing him up close and totally naked. Yearning for what he can't have anymore, and it's his own fault. He reminds himself that this is what's best for both of them – what's best for Shiro – and that he only gave up part of what they had, not everything. That Shiro's here, quietly enduring Keith's silence after _Keith_ suggested they meet up in the first place, is evidence that he's interested in that too. The transition might be a bit odd, is all. And yep, really – he should have done some stress relief in advance. 

“There's a new Mexican place near the mall,” Shiro says eventually. He signals and takes a left, and then looks over at Keith. “Been there yet? The reviews are good.” 

Keith smiles a little, because Shiro really is the type of person who reads restaurant reviews on the regular, rather than just defaulting to the same three holes in the wall every time or stumbling into whatever is closest. If left to his own devices, Shiro would probably eat nothing but sandwiches and mac and cheese and ramen, but he sure is appreciative and when good food is placed in front of him and can be a bit elitist when it comes to eating out. Laziness coming up against a _good upbringing_ , as they say. On second thought, the latter might also be the reason why he never learned to cook. They had probably the _help_ for that. 

“Haven't heard of it,” Keith replies, and even though his own upbringing was anything but proper, he did pick up enough manners to take a breath and finally meet Shiro's eyes. “But if you wanna try it, sure, let's go there.” 

That's the extent of conversation have in the car, and save for some quick, vaguely stilted banter about Shiro's taste for spicy food and Keith's total lack thereof, they don't talk much over dinner either. The reviews are correct, at least; the food is good. 

Back outside, Keith kind of wants to call the night a loss and suggest they head home; it's getting late and it's a school night, and Shiro will have work in the morning. It would make sense. But if he does that, he’ll probably keep avoiding Shiro and Shiro won't press because Shiro is used to waiting him out. The thought alone has Keith on the verge of a slight panic. Things between them can't stay this weird; he won't allow it. 

Keith looks around the plaza. They said food and a movie, and they’re only halfway through that plan. One of the cinemas in area is right on the other end of the plaza, and he can see the billboard of the other one if he cranes his head a bit and squints. Few of the movies advertised sound familiar, but the second theater seems to still be showing the latest Star Trek movie and, while Keith is more of a Star Wars guy himself, Shiro will always agree to anything _in space_. In another life, Keith can picture him trying to be an astronaut or something, but in this one he's a teacher just like his parents and their parents before them. 

Keith points. “Seen that one yet?” 

He knows the answer. Well. Not exactly, but he can guess. 

“Three times,” Shiro says, as expected, but his face lights up regardless. “I'm totally up for one more, though.” 

Taking Keith's hand, he takes off in direction of the theater, and Keith is too startled to resist. The contact is both familiar and alien – post-breakup touches are like that, he guesses – but he curls his fingers around Shiro's and lets himself be dragged along. He’s almost disappointed when they get to the ticket counter and each need both hands to dig out their wallets and pay. 

Once they've taken their seats, he puts one hand on the armrest between them, a little strategically, and he can feel himself blush when Shiro looks down and grins, having him completely figured out. “You could just ask, you know.” 

“We're not – “ Keith starts, then stutters to a stop, because he still doesn't have words for what exactly they _aren't_ anymore. “So wouldn't that be weird?” 

Shiro shrugs. “Only if we make it weird, I'd say.” He recaptures Keith's hand and shifts, making himself comfortable. “Besides, your favorite gets shot in this one, so you're gonna need the emotional support.” 

“I don't care _that_ much,” Keith says, huffing. “I only ever watched these for you, anyway.” 

“Whatever you say, man,” Shiro shoots back, and squeezes their fingers tighter together, almost painfully. In retaliation, Keith turns and pokes a finger into his side, and they squabble until a strategic kick to both their seats reminds them they're not alone. 

The light dims as the movie is about to start, and they settle down, still holding hands, still giggling occasionally, and Keith doesn't realize he's grinning ear to ear until way after the opening credits. 

 

***

 

The next morning – okay, fine, it's closer to noon – Keith wakes to a text message from Shiro that contains nothing but a crying emoji and the one that winks and sticks its tongue out at the same time. Keith texts back a quick [ugh, asshole] and pads into the bathroom for a shower. 

They shoot texts back and forth the whole day, and in the evening, Shiro calls him to complain about a surprise test he gave his students today; the grades were horrendous. That leads to a long conversation about whether or not teaching is really is calling, if he's good at it, if he's ruining the kids he's supposed to teach. It's the kind of crisis of faith Keith learned to wrangle when they were still in college. The day after, Keith's calling Shiro during his second break basically on autopilot because he had a particularly bitchy customer and calling Shiro to complain about the jerk of the day is just what they do. 

He doesn't see Shiro again until Friday, but when he does it feels natural and comfortable, the same it always did, and he's sure he doesn't imagine the relieved looks their friends exchange all evening. Pidge even goes as far as winking at him, one time, as he passes by to serve orders to an elderly couple a few tables over.


	2. Chapter 2

Every once in a while, Keith gets the morning shift. That's not his favorite – for one, _mornings_ , and for another, people are in a rush and are more likely to be rude later in the day, statistically – but whenever Anita or Carl are out sick or on vacation, he'll have to bite the bullet. And to make that burden a bit easier, he usually texts Shiro the evening before and asks him to swing by on his way to work. On a few rare occasions, Keith hits the jackpot and Shiro won't have class until late. That means he'll come by as soon as he's awake and presentable, and Keith can grumble at him between serving office monkeys who think that the appropriate time to be served a latte macchiato and pay is 37.5 seconds.

“I hate this job,” Keith says, flopping down in the chair beside Shiro’s, essays spread out across the table.

“You love this job,” Shiro corrects, not even looking up. “You just hate being awake before noon.”

Keith frowns, because yeah, but also it's still too early for witty counter arguments. He yawns, and Shiro does glance his way, smiling fondly. “Maybe pour yourself another coffee?”

Clicking his jaw, Keith shakes his head. “Nah. I already had three. Any more, and I'll start vibrating. Or yelling. Neither would reflect very well on the diner.”

“True,” Shiro says. “And on the upside, it'll still be early enough for a nap when you get home?”

Such a Shiro thing to say, Keith has to groan a little. “Okay, one.” He ticks it off with a finger. “That's a compromise, not an upside. And two.” A second finger gets raised. “In what world is it ever too late for naps?”

“In the world of most adult human beings with day jobs,” Shiro says, and it might have sounded condescending or pitying from someone else, but Shiro says it softly enough that it comes out as teasing, as a joke.

Keith leans forward and pillows his head on his crossed arms. “That is not a world I want to live in.”

All Shiro does by the way of a reply is reach over to pat his head, making Keith swat at him, and they fall silent for a few minutes while Keith watches the door and Shiro keeps working on his essays. The morning rush is dying down, and it's gonna be slow business until noon, after which Elena will arrive and take over. Keith likes Elena. She usually brings her boys around, twelve and seven years old, and they've taken a liking to him. They like dinosaurs and toy robots and they will never know what it feels like to sit on a worn sofa in a group home all afternoon and wonder if their parents ever even wanted them.

The bell above the door announces a new customer, and Keith sends her off with a smoothie and a piece of chocolate cake and sits back down. Shiro glances at his wristwatch, then looks up at him proper, all the while moving to gather his essays and fold them away in his briefcase.

“I've met someone,” he says, apropos of nothing, fast, like he's ripping off a bandaid. And oh, Keith sure feels the accompanying sting.

“What?” Keith says, dumbfounded, then pulls himself together and smiles. Of course that was going to happen sooner or later. Shiro's a good-looking guy, a great person to boot. There was no way he wouldn't find someone to appreciate that, with Keith out of the picture. Keith reminds himself that this is what he wanted – for Shiro to be happy. “That's wonderful,” he adds. “Good luck.”

Shiro sighs at him. “Look, I know this is awkward. But I met him yesterday – ran into each other in the frozen food aisle, can you believe it? – and we'll go out for dinner next week, and I wanted you to know before I tell anyone else.”

That's very fair, Keith supposes. The decent thing to do. And he's got no right to be territorial. “I mean it, Shiro,” he says, and hopes he sounds halfway sincere even though he kind of wants to scream. “Good luck. I hope you have a good time.”

“Thank you,” Shiro says, while he clips his briefcase shut. Looks like he timed this announcement so that he'll get to run off to work right after, which seems a bit cowardly and out of character.

But Keith doesn't quite mind. He'd like some alone time to process, anyway. Well. Relatively alone, at least until Vito comes down from his flat above the diner and they prepare for lunch orders to roll in.

Shiro stands and looks him over, and if his phone rings in the next fifteen minutes with a concerned call from Pidge or Lance, Keith will know why. He waves Shiro off, pastes on a reassuring smile. “I'm fine, really. Have fun and don't do anything we wouldn't have done.”

That earns him a hefted eyebrow and a groan, but at least Shiro picks up his notebook from the booth and turns toward the door. Keith shoves him the next few steps, making him stumble and laugh under his breath, and then Keith's alone, only the coffeemaker to keep him company until Vito arrives.

 

***

 

The first day post-date-news isn't so bad. It really isn't. Shiro comes by after school and they manage a normal conversation. They don't see each other the next day, and that's fine as well; Anita is still on vacation and they're really feeling it that night, meaning he's too busy to think past food orders, the crying toddler in booth three, or a lady at the counter complaining about the temperature of her latte for ten minutes.

Day three is when it really hits home. That's his scheduled day off, which always sucks in the middle of the week because none of the others are free, and Keith spends the majority of the afternoon sitting on the couch in various, increasingly creative positions and pouring salt into the wound by watching dating shows on Netflix. He doesn't even know how he got there. He hates dating shows. They're fake and stupid and overly dramatic, and also, why would Kirsten even _want_ to get with that douchebag of a bachelor, she's much too smart to—

In his wild gesturing about the romantic choices of a total stranger, on a TV show, who is also probably a paid amateur actor in the first place, Keith manages to knock over his coffee mug, spilling the contents all over his sweatpants. That's not as dire an incident as it could have been, seeing how the coffee went cold like an hour ago anyway, but it still means he'll have to get up and change and put the dirty clothes into a soak, and it's all just a lot right now and terribly inconvenient. Moving from the couch was not part of the _plan_ for today, dammit.

But needs must be met, especially because it's not a particularly pleasant feeling to sit around with wet pants, so Keith sighs and heaves himself up. He undresses in the bathroom and takes care of the dirty clothes, then pads to the bedroom to get new ones. That would have been a short and altogether insignificant disturbance to his afternoon, except when he's pulled on fresh boxers and reaches into the wardrobe for a new shirt, he comes up empty.

Oh, yeah. He forgot about that. He'd forgone putting a load of laundry on yesterday before work because he'd thought he could do that on his day off, meant to take care of that this morning, before Netflix beckoned and all other plans for the day got canceled in favor of Sitting Sorrowfully On The Couch.

He pulls on jeans and a ratty sweater instead, and gathers a load of laundry from the hamper to carry downstairs to the washing machines. He almost walks back out when he sees that the laundry room is already occupied. Allura – easily identified by her impressive, gorgeous, large long curls, which are still gorgeous and impressive even when she tries to tame them with a hopelessly outclassed hair tie – is bent over one of the other machines. She straightens up to smile at him in greeting just when he's marching through the door.

“Hey, Keith, it's so nice to see you,” she says. That she sounds kind and genuine just makes him feel like more of an ass for wanting to march right back out. “Day off?”

He likes her; that's not the problem. It's just that the _plan_ really didn't include company, however briefly. Also, he hasn't showered since yesterday and he probably still sinks like the diner and, oh, also, like cold coffee, and... But running off now would be rude and pointless. He'll just have to pad down here again later and with his luck, she'll be down here again to gather her laundry just then and things will be even more awkward.

So he smiles back to the best of his ability and sets his basket down on the counter. “Hey, Allura. Great to see you too.”

Her expression gets a little pinched, inquisitive, and she cocks her head. “What's wrong? Why is my favorite neighbor moping?”

“I'm not moping,” Keith lies on principle alone, just for her vocabulary choice. “I'm fine. Everything's excellent.”

“Of course.” Allura cocks her head further and squints. “Do I have to call Shiro and team up with him to deliver a stern lecture to whoever put that sad-sack expression on your face?”

It's the name. He could have maybe have weaseled his way out of this conversation if she hadn't mentioned Shiro's name. He briefly, stupidly wonders why she even has Shiro's phone number, but then remembers that they all exchanged those about a week after she moved in, when they helped her move an armchair up the narrow staircase.

“That'd be difficult,” Keith says, shrugging his shoulders. “Because Shiro's the one who put it there.”

She takes a step towards him, then glances at his laundry, the empty washing machine next to the one she's using, and smiles again in sympathy. “Tell you what. We take care of your laundry, and then we'll go and kill the two pints of Chocolate Chip Deluxe ice cream I have in the freezer upstairs? We don't even have to talk about it if you don't want to. I just can't stand the thought of you being sad on your own.”

“I'm not that sad,” Keith starts, but Allura emphatically shakes her head.

“I want to cry just looking at you right now,” she says, and winks at him when he automatically stands a little straighter, tries to school his features into something a little less open, a little less embarrassing. “Ice cream. Definitely. I'm part of the tenants’ council, remember? And I'm making an executive decision.”

He opens his mouth to protest, but finds that, on second thought, ice cream and quiet commiserating actually do sound quite inviting. Surely better than another couple hours of watching the Kirstens of this world throw themselves at shallow douchebags.

 

***

 

Keith spends the day of _the date_ in the food court of the local mall with Hunk and Lance for company. This wasn't his idea. If he's to believe them, which he doesn't, it had been a spontaneous thought. They rocked up at his place about an hour ago, and because Hunk has enough of a weight advantage to pull Keith places even when he's literally dragging his feet and Lance is simply annoying, they managed to coax him into the car. His forced cooperation stopped there, though, because they can maybe pull him to the water but they can't make him drink. Or eat, for that matter.

“You're missing out,” Lance announces, out of nowhere, and Keith turns to glare at him. He doesn't have to be told, he knows – but Lance's eyes go wide and he points down at his sushi. His voice is much quieter when he adds, “It really is delicious.”

Beside him, Hunk sighs, the kind where his shoulders heave and his whole body slumps in onto itself for a moment. “What my cute but clueless boyfriend is trying to say is that we brought you here so you, too, can enjoy the evening with nice company. Right? Plus you'll regret that empty stomach later, when we go and drag you dancing and proceed to drink you under the table.”

Robbed of any hope that this was supposed to be a short dinner affair, and because they're trying and it's nice and he should not be ungrateful, Keith lets his gaze roam around the stands in search of something he wouldn't mind eating. The air smells of all kinds of food and usually he wouldn't have a hard time choosing, but, right now his stomach is in knots. Even the thought of swallowing any food makes his throat close up.

He meets Hunk's hopeful gaze and shakes his head, feeling like he just accidentally kicked someone's puppy when Hunk's expression also turns mournful. “I dunno. Maybe later.”

Before he starts dragging down the mood of the entire mall, by osmosis or through the air or something, he shoves his chair back and gestures towards the sign for the public restroom.

“I'll just go, you know,” he says, even though his bladder isn't anywhere near being a concern, and he barely waits for Hunk's and Lance's simultaneous nod before he hurries away through the maze of aisles and stands and actual corner restaurants.

His steps slow once he's out of sight, and he entertains then discards the thought of bailing back home. They wouldn't let him take his wallet and he'd have to take the bus, and besides, he's not that rude. They mean well. It's a nice thing to do. Running out on them without so much as a goodbye would make _him_ the asshole.

He takes his time washing his hands afterwards, while he decides that he could pass an extended stroll past the stands off as an actual effort at finding something to eat. Lance and Hunk might catch the lie, but it's probable enough that they might not call him on it. He even stops at some of the stands and takes a sniff, seeing if his mouth waters at anything, but it's all a lost cause.

As he's rounding the aisle towards the sushi stand where Lance got his dinner, Keith spots a familiar shape in the crowd. He discards it as wishful thinking at first, chides himself for being too hung up on something he can't have. Then, he looks again and notices that the guy working towards him, animatedly chatting with a really cute blond guy – he _is_ cute, Keith can admit that much – is indeed Shiro.

Like he's been struck by lightning, Keith freezes, wasting precious seconds before he resorts to fight-or-flight and hides behind the booth. The bored-looking college kid operating the stand sends him a questioning glance, and Keith waves him off, all but jumping behind a marbled pillar.

From the safety of his new hideout, he tracks Shiro and his date as they walk through the court. The guy gestures wildly with his hands as he talks, and Shiro watches like he's spellbound, and then throws his head back on a laugh.

Even though Keith isn't close enough to hear him, not without the music and the noise in here, he knows and recalls the sound, and it echoes in his mind regardless. He stares, getting queasy and yet unable to look away, and it nearly rips him in two. He remembers one afternoon during the first weeks after they moved from childhood friends to college friends with occasional benefits, sitting on the bed in Keith's dorm room. Out of the blue, while they were questioning each other for their respective tests the next day, Shiro had leaned over and kissed Keith. Mind spinning, Keith had blinked at him, asking why he did that, what that was for, and Shiro had laughed, exactly like that, shrugged his shoulders, and told him he'd just looked cute and kissable and he couldn't resist.

And suddenly Keith can't stand it. He can't stand any of it. He can't stand that he won't feel Shiro's lips, soft against his own, ever again. He can't stand knowing how that laugh, the expression and tone of voice that go with it, will now be reserved for someone else. He can't stand the thought of having to watch them flirt and giggle at their weekly Friday nights in the foreseeable future and somehow keep from screaming himself hoarse with the wrongness of it all.

He made a mistake. The thought comes out of nowhere, uninvited after it's been carefully kept at bay for months. So what if Shiro was about to tell him they should stop having casual sex? Keith could have fought for what he wanted. Hell, it could even have been something entirely different. He doesn't know that's what Shiro was going to say. They still love each other, matched up perfectly as friends and in bed. It could have been so small a step to suggest to Shiro they could try and be more, be everything for one another instead of a patchwork of friends and lovers and kinky play partners.

And now it's too late. Now, Keith's watching Shiro talk and flirt – and possibly fall in love right this second – with someone else.

He can't do this. It was easy enough to pretend he could, when they were both single and all that was missing was the ability, the standing agreement, to touch and kiss and take when he needed it. He keeps watching them while Shiro tells a counter story, one Keith even thinks he recognizes from the gesturing that goes with it, and it takes all his self control to let them walk out of sight and not follow them through the whole mall like a pathetic, jealous stalker.

 

***

 

By the time Keith realizes that _getting hella drunk_ was maybe the wrong course of action after his encounter in the mall, he's already past the point of no return. He's lost Lance and Hunk to the dance floor, where they're making out because alcohol makes them clingy and shameless. He can't blame them for abandoning him; he hasn't become any better company since the mall. It's the worst mood to pour booze onto, but here he is, nursing another whiskey-cola because he doesn't have anything better to do.

In his addled state, up to the nose in self-pity, it takes him a while to notice the dark-skinned guy across the bar who keeps glancing his way. Probably also intoxicated to the point of lowered impulse control, the guy displays the polar opposite of stealth. His gaze weaves between his own drink, one of those fruity concoctions for like ten dollars a pop, and Keith's face. Keith observes his glances from the corner of his eye while he hunches further in on himself. The guy is cute, short hair, two buttons open on his silky red shirt, and that thought alone makes the back of Keith's neck burn with embarrassment and unfounded guilt. He hasn't flirted with anyone in ages, gave up on that a few weeks after Shiro and him started sleeping together, and the idea of raising his head feels like a betrayal.

As soon as it appears, _that_ thought makes him angry. He doesn't owe Shiro anything. Never did, all things considered, and there's a small but valid chance that Shiro's date is going so well that he's abandoned all second thoughts and the awkwardness about his prosthetic and is, right this second, making out with mall guy somewhere.

That line of thinking brings forth an idea: the best way to get over the loss of one guy is to get under another, right? Moving on would be so much easier if Keith was also getting laid, also had someone to soothe his broken heart with, if only for a few hours here and there. Hell, it doesn't even need to be an hour. Maybe it'll already help if he'd fuck someone, anyone, who isn't Shiro. Start getting him out of his system. Prove to himself that it's still an option. Again. Whatever.

Keith knocks back the rest of his drink, then straightens on his bar stool. He can flirt. He remembers how. It's like riding a bike. Never took him much effort, before. He turns, one arm braced on the bar stool, between his legs, and smiles brightly at his admirer. The guy squints, glances around as if he's waiting for someone to jump out of the background and yell _punked!_ or something, but then he smiles back, confident, relaxed. He really is pretty, and he's got warm brown eyes that shine with his smile, and before Keith knows what's happening to him, the guy is sliding off his own stool and walking over.

“Hey,” he says, and Keith has some difficulty keeping from blinking up at him somewhat shocked. “I'm James.”

Swallowing past a large lump in his throat, Keith leans back against the bar. “Nice to meet you. I'm Keith.”

James joins him, bracing himself on his elbows. He nods towards the dance floor. “You like that song?”

He does, actually, but he's a shit dancer and doesn't get any enjoyment out of it at all. So he goes all in, cocks his head, says, “Yeah, but dancing isn't really what I had in mind.”

Before his newfound boldness can flee the building, Keith jumps off the stool and takes James's hand, leading him in the opposite direction of the dance floor, towards the darker corners behind the bar. James is a few inches taller than Keith. He towers over him when Keith's back hits the wall and he drags James in close, grinning. “Not wasting any time, huh?”

“Nope,” Keith says simply, and wraps his arm around James's neck to pull him down for a kiss.

It's not too bad at first – James is a good kisser, and he tastes like strawberry and kiwi rather than cheap alcohol – but the longer they keep at it, the larger the lump in Keith’s throat becomes. He soon feels like he's suffocating, trying to draw air out of a vacuum, and the breathlessness that comes with good kisses doesn't help quell the rising panic either.

This is wrong. This is terribly wrong. It's not helping because James can be as cute and as proficient at making out as he wants, but the simple fact remains: he's not Shiro. He's not the person Keith knows, the person he still wants. He tastes wrong, smells wrong, and when he says Keith's name, an edge of worry in his voice, Keith wants to scream.

So much for moving on.

“I'm sorry,” he says, drawing back, the panicking again when he finds he's got nowhere to go, and pushes at James's forearms where they're bracketed around him. “I changed my mind, I'm – “

To his credit, James raises his hands immediately, palms outward, like he's instinctively trying to make himself appear non-threatening. “You okay, man?”

“Yeah.” Keith smiles, awkwardly, then looks down to the dirty floor. “Had a bit too much to drink, I guess. Sorry.”

He slips away, waving, and then turns on his heel and heads for the bathroom. Tears burn in his eyes, threatening to spill over, and he laughs at his reflection in the large mirror, framed by the urinal on one side and the stalls on the other. This is pathetic. His cheeks are hot with shame, his eyes are red and bloodshot, both even more pronounced in the harsh glow from the neon lights overhead. He had everything he wanted, and he threw it away, and now he can't let it go.

The door opens and Keith flinches, and he's somewhat surprise to see Lance's face in the door frame, peering at him with concern. “What happened? Did that guy – “

“No.” Keith shakes his head, with feeling. “No, no, it's okay. I'm fine. I just.”

And now he’s crying. Silent tears start traveling down his face before he can stop himself, and he wipes them away with the back of his hand. Lance pushes out a breath and grabs his arm, leads him to the space opposite the door, only covered by a condom dispenser but otherwise bare tile. He makes them both slide down, draws Keith in so Keith's face rests on his shoulder.

“Shiro, hm?” he says, giving Keith's knee a dorky pat when he nods. “He'll come to his senses, you know? Like, that guy he's meeting is probably, I don't know. He probably smells, and sporfles when he laughs, not even the cute kind, just plain gross and ridiculous. And he has a terrible sense of humor, offensive and really the opposite of funny, and they won't be getting along at all. There's no way Shiro's gonna – “

“Shut up,” Keith says, grinning despite himself, scrubbing a hand down his face, and playfully elbowing Lance in the ribs. “Just shut up and call Hunk so we can go home.”

 

***

 

Drinking always seems like a much worse idea in the morning. Keith nearly hisses at the rays of sunlight that trickle in through the curtains, the brightness hurting his eyes and making his distant queasiness a bit worse. He's not going to throw up – uh, any more – but his whole body feels like it's made of cotton wool and yeah, okay, there's a reason why he doesn't normally do it. Alcohol is pretty much never worth the resulting hangover.

He sits up and reviews the previous evening. No hard regrets. That might have been the case if he went home with... uh, what was his name again? Jason? No. James. It was James, Keith is reasonably sure.

Anyway. James-or-Jason was hardly the most significant part of the previous evening. Nope, that's been Shiro – always Shiro – and the discovery that Keith is not, and likely will never be, okay with seeing him with someone else. Not all that surprising a plot twist, in hindsight. He thought he'd be able to bite back the hurt for the greater good, for Shiro's sake, but of course he'd been wrong. Of course, it's unbearable.

Keith gets up and pads into the kitchen, slowly, because neither the change in altitude nor the movement are doing great things for his leftover nausea. He sinks down to the couch and switches the TV on, but ignores the program in favor of pulling out a drawer on a cupboard to his left. He's got to stretch a bit to reach it without getting back up, and the item he rummages around for clatters to the ground as soon as he's freed it.

Groaning, Keith fishes the photo album off the floor, then sits back with his legs crossed and begins filing through it. College photos, and it's both comforting and painful to look through them now. Everything seemed so easy then, when he and Shiro had just come up with their agreement, when it seemed obvious and unlikely to ever carry any complications. More than once, in the early days, their friends wondered aloud why they'd go for friends with benefits when there was nothing stopping them from trying for more. The arguments Keith brought to those questions varied over the years: they were too young for commitment, a relationship would have distracted them from studying, they didn't need anything more, their lives had just become too different.

All of that is bullshit. Always has been. Keith has been in love with Shiro, one way or another, since before he ever really comprehended what the word _love_ means. He always assumed it was the same for Shiro, to some degree, and that they'd just settled into something that was easy and comfortable for both of them, and that they'd move forward when they're ready for that aforementioned, mysterious _more_.

Keith's been ready for a while, he thinks. But there are two people in this, and confidence in his relationships, romantic or otherwise, is not part of Keith's design. Memories of the happy flirting he witnessed the other day twist in his gut like a knife, and some old doubts make themselves known. There's no way Shiro will feel the same. He won't want him back like that. No one ever will. He's not good enough for Shiro, who deserves better than being saddled with Keith's truckload of issues and the resulting complications in yet another way. If this whole mess proved one thing thoroughly, it's that.

He closes the photo album and flings it onto the coffee table, then curls up on his side, head pillowed on his hands. He doesn't change the channel, watches a reality show about flea market sellers and then a documentary about insects in the Amazonian jungle, and it takes a herculean effort to make himself get up and shower when it’s time to head to his shift.

 

***

 

The next Friday rolls around without mercy and in total disregard of Keith's continued, intense wishing that the earth might just open up and swallow him at basically any point the universe deems convenient. For the first time since they started, it occurs to him that holding these weekly meetings at his place of work was a grave miscalculation on his part. He has no means of escape. He briefly considers calling in sick, but none of this is Vito's fault and Keith's work morale doesn't allow it. Besides, with his luck – and choice of friends – it'd probably just make the whole gang show up at his place with chicken soup and cough syrup instead.

So Keith puts on a brave face and wades right through the mess he made.

Hunk and Lance are the first to show up, which is a novelty insofar that Shiro _isn't_. They both look somewhat nonplussed while studying the menu that all of them could recite in their sleep by now anyway, and keep mumbling to each other in what they probably think is a subtle manner. The mumbling rises in volume when Pidge arrives, and Keith suspects they're discussing the same possibility that makes him feel both relieved and heartbroken for no reason he could explain: that Shiro won't show up. It'd be miles out of character and would only postpone the inevitable, but Keith is kind of banking on time to heal all wounds, for the moment, so maybe it'd be a good thing. Maybe it'd help. Like a detox; no in-person contact for a week or three. On second thought, they haven't texted much this past few days either and while it hurts like hell it's also–

The bell above the door makes Keith's head swing around so fast he nearly drops the plate of onion rings he's been carrying, and despite it all, the Pavlovian reaction to Shiro's arrival is still a welcoming, delighted smile, given in the moments before Keith's conscious mind can remember the hurt and the regret and the expected awkwardness.

Keith hurries to deliver the onion rings, then marches over to their table, catching the tail end of an explanation for Shiro's delay.

“–and she needed someone to drive her over to the hospital either way, so I thought I'd kill two birds with one stone and check in on Brian while I'm there,” Shiro says, smiling sheepishly when he catches Keith's eyes. He promptly looks away, and really, Keith is ready for a black hole to appear beneath his feet any minute now. “Turns out she also needed an x-ray and all that stuff, and you know how hospitals are, so we were there most of the afternoon. I had to drop her off at home after, then change, then head over... yeah.”

So, yeah. Shiro's date – _Brian_ – is not only cute and entertaining, but also a nurse, and Keith knew that. Someone mentioned it to him before, maybe even Shiro himself, he just kinda forgot. It makes a strange kind of sense. A teacher and a nurse. It's so... cliché? Wholesome? Obvious? Any one of these.

Keith wants to throw up.

“Hey,” says Hunk, leaning over to pat the back of Shiro's hand. “You're here now. That's what counts, right? We've all been late.”

That shouldn't feel like a betrayal – they're all friends – but it kind of does. It stings. It feels like Hunk's taking sides, and oh fuck no, that's not what this will turn into. Keith's not going to make anyone _choose_.

“I take it the date went well, then?” he asks, damn near choking on the words and hoping it isn't too apparent. “Gonna see him again?”

Shiro's eyes dart this way and that. He clears his throat. “Yeah,” he says, but it sounds more like a question than a statement. “I have midterms to prepare and his schedule is kind of murder right now, but we're looking for an evening that works for both of us.”

He's got enough tact not to sound excited, and that's also wrong. He should be excited. He's sharing good news about his love life with his friends. The only reason why he's playing it down is to minimize Keith's hurt.

Keith nods, tries to smile, and turns, pointing towards the kitchen. “Uhh. I think I forgot an order. I... I'll be back in a few.”

For the next ten minutes, he keeps close to the kitchen, making one-sided small talk attempts with a rather perplexed and, as usual, monosyllabic Vito. Then he's saved by the bell, which now announces a whole herd of boys in varsity jackets, chattering and laughing and ordering up and down the menu. Turns out they have the appetites of men on the verge of starvation and keep Keith busy for the better part of the next hour.

When he returns to his group’s table he finds Shiro already gone. Keith's gaze falls to the empty chair, and he hears Hunk take in a breath.

“He wanted to say goodbye, but you were so busy,” Hunk starts, but Keith waves him off.

“It's fine. He had a long day. I'm sure he's tired.”

They all exchange a glance, pointed and concerned and generally the kind that makes Keith's fight-or-flight instinct scream in the back of his head. Then Lance looks toward the counter, around the room, and smiles at, Keith knows, finding them much emptier than half an hour ago.

“C'mon, sit down,” he says. “You haven't even eaten with us yet.”

His stomach does growl at the invitation, and since an intervention by the Friendship Council is never canceled, only postponed, Keith resigns himself to his fate and sits down. He nods towards Vito for his daily free plate of whatever the kitchen's got a surplus of tonight. He leans forward, bracing his chin on both open hands.

“Okay, so shoot,” he says, glaring at each of them in turn.

There's some mumbling, half-hearted denial of the fact that this is, indeed, an intervention, and Pidge surprises absolutely no one with taking point. “You need to tell him how you feel.”

Keith sighs again, louder, more dramatic. “And what good is that gonna do?”

“Oh I dunno,” Hunk chimes in. “Less pining and long faces on both your parts, which is good for everyone. And more happiness and romantic bliss, which is good for you two and which the rest of us will somehow endure.”

Lance elbows him, and Pidge rolls her eyes. “What he means to say is, neither you nor Shiro are happy with the breakup. That much is obvious. And since Shiro is going to respect your choice either way, we're grabbing the problem directly by the root here.”

The root of everyone's misery, as per usual. Keith refrains from pointing that out, lest it be taken as whining. He grinds his teeth and takes aim at another part of her argument. “I dunno, Shiro sounds plenty happy when he's with Brian. Or talking about Brian. When he's thinking about Brian, too, probably.”

“And you're cool with that?” Lance wants to know.

Keith straightens on his chair and leans back, slouching with his arms crossed in front of his chest. “Of course I am. I'm happy if he's happy.”

Pidge cocks her head at him. It's clear she's itching with a reply, except just then Vito marches up to the table and sets a plate with chicken sandwiches, french fries, and a side of coleslaw down in front of Keith, who thanks him but doesn't move to start his meal. They're not done here yet, and until they are he won't have the peace and quiet to eat anyway.

“Go on,” he says, staring a challenge at Pidge, who stares back, then grins, sticking her tongue out and reaching for his plate. Not what he meant, and they both know it, but he has to bite down on a smile anyway.

The next breath he takes is a little easier, his chest unclenching a bit. He's still among friends. He's known them for ages. This might seem a bit like an interrogation, but in the end they just want him to be happy. Both of them; Shiro too.

“Well then,” she says, stabbing a soggy french fry at him. “Is that why you're going all little green monster? Because you don't give a shit?”

Her candor has always been both her best and her most annoying feature.

Keith snorts, turning away. “I'm not jealous.”

Hunk lets out a long sigh, somewhere to his right. “Maybe jealous isn't the right word, but dude, you're miserable. And I honestly don't think you have to be. Like, did you never notice the way Shiro looks at you when _you're_ not looking? It's even more forlorn than the way you look at him, and if I hadn't witnessed it with my own two eyes on multiple occasions? I wouldn't have thought _that_ was humanly possible.”

Automatically, before he can resist the impulse, Keith glances up. “What do you mean?”

“He's in love with you,” Lance jumps in. “Has been for ages. Seriously. So far gone. It's basically printed on his forehead.”

Keith manages to hold his eyes for a grand total of five seconds before he deflates. “That's not the point.”

But Lance doesn't let up; Keith can practical feel is incredulous stare. “That's not...” he parrots, then shakes his head. “So enlighten us, what is the point?”

Head lowered, Keith glances to the side, exhales. “He's better off without me.”

There's a flurry of voices as they all start talking at the same time and Keith almost laughs, hysterically, out of embarrassment both for having to explain the thoughts that spring from the faulty wiring he's got in the place where other people process their feelings, and from the enthusiastic show of concern. It makes him uncomfortable, being in the center of attention, being cared for this way.

Pidge holds a hand up, silencing the other two. Her voice is quiet, gentle, when she speaks again. “Don't you think you should give him a chance to make that choice himself? Let him have a say?”

“He's got Brian now,” Keith says, fully aware that it sounds somewhat petulant.

“Only because he couldn't have you,” Hunk says, in the same tone, like they're all talking to a spooked animal and any loud sounds might set it off. “I'll bet Pidge's research grant on that.”

“Hey!” Pidge squeaks, picking another drenched french fry off Keith's plate and throwing it Hunk's way. He yelps when it lands on his shirt sleeve, rubbing at the ketchup stain with a napkin, and she throws her head back on a laugh, but then quickly sobers into a more earnest expression. “I'd let him place that bet, actually. Because it's true. No chance of losing.”

Keith looks around the table, mouth opening and closing because he wants to deny that, prove it untrue, but the words don't come. He doesn't know what to say.

“I...” he starts, and then he's saved by Vito's voice rumbling over from the kitchen, warning him that he won't get leftovers anymore if he lets them go cold without good reason – as in, a new surge of paying customers.

Pidge steals another french fry, muttering about how she definitely wouldn't let free food go to waste, and Hunk places a giant hand on Keith's shoulder. “Just think about it,” he says. “Don't sabotage yourself like this. Don't sabotage _both of you_. Talk to him.”

 

***

 

It's about half past midnight when Keith gets home after work. It's getting a little closer to 1 AM when he's finally in bed, resolved to get to sleep, and stick to his guns, and not let anything that the Friendship Council told him earlier make him waver in his carefully considered, reasonable decisions.

It's 1:15 AM when he sighs, fishes his cell phone off the nightstand, and types out a message. He deletes it, however, because Shiro is either asleep right now or balls deep in Brian, there are no other options Keith's brain allows. Either way, if Keith doesn't call him now, he's never going to call him at all. He's going to lose his momentum. He'll think twice about this whole thing and spend the next weeks, months, or years watching Shiro laugh at Brian's jokes and he's going to choke on all the things he'll have wanted to say but couldn't.

The last thing that goes through Keith's head, before the call connects, is that somehow this must surely all be Pidge's fault.

“Keith?” Shiro slurs into the phone, sounding sleep-drunk, and that's a small stage win right there. “Wha's goin' on?”

“Can we meet?” Keith asks, quickly, a little too loud.

There's rustling as Shiro, Keith assumes, sits up in bed. His voice is a bit clearer when he replies. “Right now? It's the middle of the night. Can't it wait–”

“It's like quarter past one, that's nowhere near the middle,” Keith falls in. “And no, it can't wait. I need to talk to you. I really, really need to talk to you.”

Shiro sighs, but the sheets rustle again and he groans, which, hopefully, means he just swung his feet out of bed. Getting ready. Getting one step closer to coming here. “Fine. I'm coming over. Just tell me you didn't set anything on fire or shit like that.”

“Neither the fire department nor the police are involved, I promise,” Keith assures, and then adds, a little quieter, “Thank you, Shiro.”

“Sure,” Shiro mumbles, and disconnects the call.

For a full five minutes afterwards Keith sits in bed, back straight as a rod, trying not to pick the phone back up and take it all back. Tell Shiro it's fine, he can stay home, it doesn't matter, and apologize for waking him up and making him get dressed.

Once that initial wave of panic and regret has passed, Keith himself gets up and pulls on sweatpants and a t-shirt, puts on shoes, and walks downstairs. It's a little bit too cold outside, he should have taken a jacket, but he doesn't go back up. He shifts from foot to foot, both arms wrapped around himself, and waits for Shiro's car to round the corner. When it does, he waves and walks up to it, and rounds the car where Shiro has parked it on the spaces lining the street in front of the apartment building.

He opens the passenger door and climbs inside. Shiro turns the engine off and turns towards him, his whole body a question mark. “Okay. Now tell me what the fuck is going on here?”

“I love you.” The words are out before Keith can stop himself. Okay, fine, that's not what he intended to lead with, but it's the essence of what he was going to say, and he didn't have a whole lot of time to practice a speech. He's improvising. “I love you, and when you said you wanted to talk after the last time we slept together, I panicked and I convinced myself you weren't interested in more and wanted to look for something real with somebody else and you were going to end things, so I decided to make it easier and set you free first, and I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I fucked this up, but I'm going to die if I have to watch you with anyone else, and I don't know how to fix this and please, say something so I can stop talking?”

Shiro gapes at him for a full minute, like a fish on dry land, eyes wide. Then he erupts into a fit of almost hysterical laughter.

"What's so funny?" Keith inquires, a tad sore about the reaction, and crosses his arms in front of his chest.

Shiro takes a deep breath, another, and smiles. His eyes shine with something Keith can't identify and his face is heated from the laughter. He's so _beautiful_ and Keith doesn't know how he could ever deserve to have him. "I thought _you_ weren't interested in more. That's why I agreed to the date with Brian. I didn't think I'd be able to stop thinking about you without starting to think about someone else first."

“Did you?” Keith asks, feeling like they're at a crossroad. This is where he finds out whether it's too late, whether he buried them for good.

Shiro quirks an eyebrow. “Did I what?”

Averting his eyes, Keith specifies, “Did you start thinking about someone else? Brian? Are you–”

“Oh Keith,” says Shiro, and reaches out to tip Keith's face back up. “I've been in love with you, one way or another, since we were in college. Earlier than that, even. I've just been waiting for you to catch up.”

That information takes a moment to sink in, and Keith's about to say _me too_ but that sounds too big. It sounds like too many lost years, and maybe it'd be better for both of them if he doesn't admit that. The past is the past, and it doesn't change anything. The only thing they can do now is look forward.

“So what now?” he asks, because now the ball is in Shiro's court. In the last few weeks, Keith’s made enough terrible decisions on both of their behalfs.

Shiro's eyes narrow in thought. “Give me a few days. I can't go back to anything with you while Brian's still in the picture. It wouldn't be right. But I'll take care of that that, and then...” He smiles again, and this one looks like a promise. “Then we'll start over. Do this right. Okay?”

Nodding, Keith smiles back.

 

***

 

 _A few days_ is the kind of phrase that gets tossed around carelessly a lot and doesn't seem like that big a deal most of the time. One day, two, three; they pass by like they're nothing.

While waiting for the love of your life to break up with their interim love interest, however, _a few days_ become endless and insurmountable. Brian works shifts at the hospital and it's understandable that arranging a meeting with him would have to adhere to that, and of course Shiro is the kind of guy who breaks up in person. And it's fine, over the weekend. Keith has to work, and with the diner somewhat busy, he initiates a lot of one-sided conversations with a rather befuddled Vito. In the downtime he cleans the fridge and rearranges the empty bottles under the counter. 

The situation grows a lot more dire – read: pathetic – on Monday, his day off after a full weekend shift. Keith manages to avoid the Netflix marathon this time and instead decides now's the perfect time to weed out his wardrobe and sort what gets kept, what goes on ebay, and what goes to goodwill. He turns the music on loud and deposits his phone on the nightstand while he spreads out heaps of clothes on the bed, and every other time he turns his back to it, he's _sure_ he sees it vibrating out of the corner of his eye. He inevitably ends up disappointed when he checks and the display is empty, still not showing the message that tells him the break up is done.

It still hasn't deigned to give that telltale ping once Keith is done with the wardrobe. By that time it's only early afternoon, because Keith didn't own that many clothes to begin with, and he's left with impatience buzzing under his skin and Netflix's easy distraction beckoning him to the living room all over again.

But nope. He's got another idea. He pulls on his jacket and grabs his wallet, and jogs to the bodega around the corner, not in the least dissuaded by the light drizzle that starts when he's halfway there. He’s focused and swift, heading back home with a large pint of strawberry shortcake ice cream, and a plain chocolate one for variety. Once home, he grabs two spoons, and goes to ring Allura's doorbell.

After few minutes of waiting, Keith sighs, about to concede that maybe he should have called ahead and of course Allura has better things to do than catering to his needy ass, but just as he's turning on his heel, the door opens. He swings back around and sees Allura smile at him, wearing a big, fluffy bathrobe, her hair wrapped up in a towel.

“Sorry,” she says, waving a hand at her getup. “I was in the shower.”

She lets Keith in and excuses herself while Keith settles on the couch, uncapping the ice cream. Five minutes later she reemerges, dressed in sweatpants and an oversized t-shirt, her hair now in a messy bun piled on top of her head.

She points at the ice cream, her expression sympathetic. “More bad news?”

Keith shakes his hand, gestures ‘no’ with his hands. “Actually, we sort of... I told him that I love him, we made up, and he's going to tell the other guy it's over.”

Allura's face lights up with genuine joy and relief as she sits down on the couch, legs folded gracefully underneath herself. “That's great, Keith. I'm happy for you.”

“So I figured,” he says, picking up both pints and waving them a little, as a sign that she should pick her favorite. She looks torn for a moment, then claims the strawberry shortcake as hers. “That I should thank you. And pay you back. You know, for the ice cream.”

And for listening to him, distracting him, keeping him company when he needed it so badly. But he doesn't really know how to say that without being awkward about it, so he hopes _ice cream_ gets the message across.

“That's very kind of you,” Allura replies, digging into her pint. She closes her eyes in enjoyment when she licks the first scoop off her spoon, and nudges him when she catches him watching. “So it all turned out alright in the end, didn't it?”

Keith sits back, considering that. His own pint of chocolate ice cream sits untouched on his thigh, the chill it exudes radiating into his leg and making the skin there grow goosebumps. “It doesn't feel like an ending. It feels like a beginning.”

He blushes as soon as he's said it, picking the ice cream up and shoveling a spoonful into his mouth by way of a distraction. It's true, though. The wait has him nervous and restless, but it's the last obstacle before he can settle down and try relaxing into the familiarity of Shiro by his side, the relief of knowing it's going to be for good this time. No what-if, no until-when. Just them, allowing themselves a real shot at happiness. Of course he knows it won't always be easy, and his brain is still going to throw him curveballs. He's not expecting a perfect fairytale. The point is, he's not doing it alone. Keith isn't in the habit of trusting himself all that much, but he has always trusted Shiro.

Allura lightly touches his arm. “That's good. I think that's how it should feel.”

She inhales to say something else, but the buzz of Keith's phone, vibrating in his pocket, stops her short. Keith digs it out, mumbling an apology for being rude, and beams at her when he finds the long-awaited message from Shiro at the display. [The deed is done. I'm heading over to your place. See you in a few.]

Before typing an answer, Keith looks up to Allura. She waves her hand. “Go. Who am I to stand in the way of young love? Besides,” and here she reaches for Keith's pint, “that means more ice cream for me.”

He leans over and takes her hand, squeezing it in thanks. Then, he rises to his feet and heads for the door.

 

***

 

For a moment Keith seriously considers taking the elevator downstairs and waiting outside, driven by an irrational fear that Shiro will head over here and then change his mind at the last minute. Keith glances at the elevator buttons and takes a deep breath. He's being ridiculous. He knows that. He'd also like to know if that fear will ever go away, or if it's something he'll have to acknowledge and say out loud and that they'll have to work out together. Lance sent him a link to a site with relationship advice last night, complete with a winking-and-stuck-out-tongue emoji that unmistakably marked it as a joke, but Keith did read some articles. They lauded honesty, communication. It sounds so logical and reasonable and _easy_ in theory.

He stands in the hallway long enough that he hears the elevator whirring to life and realizes it might be Shiro, riding up to his floor, and that finally spurs him into getting a move on and slipping into his own apartment. Having Shiro find him out here, nervous and unsure, wouldn't be the kind of start Keith wants for... this. And because Shiro is Shiro, he will notice that Keith is on edge anyway, so Keith can at least eliminate the part where he stands around in the hallway being ridiculous.

The doorbell rings barely a minute after Keith closes his apartment door. Taking a deep breath, Keith turns back around. He opens the door, and the smile he gives Shiro as lets him inside is genuine. They haven't been alone in weeks, haven't been alone with _intent_ for longer. The sight of Shiro right in front of him, here, in his apartment – Shiro smiling fondly at him despite the red flares Keith must be sending out left, right, and center – has the same effect on his nerves as a balm on inflamed skin.

“You're here,” Keith says, dumbly.

Shiro rubs the back of his neck. “I'm here.”

It's strange how they've been fucking for literal years, seen every part of each other laid bare, and yet, on the basis of their new arrangement, this feels almost like a first date.

“How'd it go?” Keith asks, mostly for something, anything, to say. He regrets it as soon as Shiro grimaces, deflates a bit.

“I haven't dumped anyone since college. It didn't get any more pleasant.” He shrugs his shoulders. “But he took it in stride. No drama, no arguments.”

“That's good,” mumbles Keith, and then he's out of things to say. All the questions he wants to ask next are inappropriate, unfair.

He watches Shiro chuck his jacket and hang it up, and he wonders if there's a grieving period, a time during which they should keep their hands to themselves out of respect for the relationship Shiro just nipped in the bud before it could go anywhere. For him. For them. So they can be together for real.

He settles on leaving that decision to Shiro. He'll put out the suggestion and accept if the answer is _not yet_. He takes a step closer to Shiro, hands in his pants pockets, and asks, “Can I kiss you?”

Shiro arches an eyebrow. “Do you suddenly require written permission for that?”

Feeling his cheeks heat with embarrassment, Keith looks away. He hears Shiro sigh and then Shiro is stepping closer, stepping into his space, and Keith's gaze darts back up to find him grinning.

“Yes, Keith,” he says. “You can kiss me. The whole point of waiting until after the I showed Brian the door was so that neither of us would have to feel guilty about doing–” He steps close enough that he can wrap an arm around Keith's waist and tip his chin up. “This.”

The kiss catches Keith off guard, but he makes up for it by kissing back that much harder when his brain has caught up with the proceedings. Shiro still tastes the same – of course he does, why wouldn't he, what a stupid thought – and the weight of his prosthetic as it settles on the swell of Keith's hip, half soothing, half possessive, is also wonderfully familiar.

There's a glint in Shiro's eyes when Keith pulls back to look at him, one Keith is very well acquainted with. Yet in this situation, he doesn't know how to parse it. Keith missed their play nights too, he missed them _so much_ , but this feels like they're skipping ahead, leaving out something important.

He licks his lips and puts a hand on Shiro's collarbone to keep him from diving right back in. “Shouldn't we, uh. Talk about this?”

Shiro's expression softens, the mischief in it carefully boxed away. “We should definitely talk about it soon. I didn't think you'd want to lead with that, though.”

He doesn't. He really, really doesn't. Shiro is right here. Shiro is his now and if there's one thing Keith wants to believe in now is that nothing, no one, is ever going to take that way again, not even Keith's own stupid treacherous brain.

He slings his arms around Shiro's neck and pulls him down so they can go back to crushing their lips together. Talking can wait. Might even be easier if they get this out of their systems first.

His hands work themselves underneath Shiro's shirt all on their own, greedy for bare skin. He's not the only one if the way Shiro moans at the touch is anything to go by. They part just long enough to take care of that, so Shiro can pull said shirt over his head; Keith manages to grip the hem of his own shirt but he abandons that endeavor when Shiro wraps him up in a full body hug, face buried against his neck.

“I missed you,” he says, so low and muffled that Keith almost doesn't catch it.

“Missed you too,” Keith replies, because it's the truth and because he needs Shiro to hear it, even though he probably already knew.

But since his brain can't stay on topic, always roams where it'll hurt the most, those questions rear their ugly heads again. For some reason it's harder, not easier, to keep them at bay when he can feel Shiro's skin hot under his palm. He wriggles out of Shiro's embrace and swallows, waits until Shiro meets his eyes, pupils dark, a blush high in his cheeks, but his whole expression a confused question mark.

“Did he touch you?” Keith asks. He sucks his lower lip between his teeth and bites down until it stings, then continues, against his better judgment. “Did you kiss him? Fuck him?”

Shiro doesn't answer right away. Keith watches, heat in his throat, as his expression shifts from confused to put off to challenging.

“Not like this,” he says, and his voice is softer than Keith expected. “Yes. And no.”

Keith blinks up at him. He can't do anything else. He thinks about seeing them in that mall, he thinks about the way Shiro had laughed. He wonders whether they'd kissed _that day_ , whether he would’ve seen it if he'd stuck around.

“Kitchen,” Shiro says into the silence, smiling now but the tone makes Keith's attention snap back towards him, a Pavlovian response that's automatically coupled with a twitch between his legs. “Move. Now.”

And he's grateful. He shouldn't be, shouldn't shove this off to Shiro. They should solve this together, but he's so very grateful for the invitation to relinquish control. He pulls himself together and heads for the kitchen as commanded, Shiro walking behind him with a hand on his shoulder; symbolic pressure.

Once there, Shiro backs him up against the counter until his ass hits the edge, then grips Keith's hips with both hands and turns him, pushes at him until Keith's chest hovers over the counter's surface. Then he reaches around to unbutton his jeans, unzips him, hooks his fingers into the belt loops and yanks them down alongside his underwear. They catch uncomfortably on the full, solid erection Keith wasn't even aware of, and Keith winces, then groans when Shiro runs a hand down his ass, down the crack and past his taint, cupping his balls and rolling them in his palm.

“Anything else you'd like to ask me right now?” Shiro teases, hand now moving forward to pump Keith's dick two, three times. This voice is still softer than usual, more banter than commanding, but it still works as an anchor. It still arrests all of Keith's attention – all that's left while someone's got a hand around him – and keeps his thoughts from wandering too far in the wrong direction.

“No,” Keith replies, trailing off into another moan at the end when Shiro rubs his thumb over his cockhead, already wet with precome and so, so sensitive.

“Safeword?” Shiro asks, but he accompanies it with a skillful twist of his wrist on the next stroke and Keith forgets to be annoyed at the question.

“Red,” he answers dutifully.

“Good,” Shiro praises, his tone appreciative if surprised, and something in Keith's chest flutters.

He missed this, and amidst all the other things about Shiro, about being with Shiro in every sense of the word, it didn't even register how much. One of the many things he thought he would never get back, and it's an intense, unfathomable relief to discover, all over again, that instead he'll get to keep it all. That it's for good.

He whines when Shiro abandons his dick, both hands instead moving to rest on the swell of his ass. “Don't touch yourself,” he commands. “You'll get nothing that I don't give you, understand?”

Keith moans, finds himself dripping at the implication alone, his pleasure and fulfillment once again at Shiro's mercy. Gripping the edge of the counter for somewhere to put his hands, to keep them from wandering, he nods.

With both hands on Keith's ass, Shiro steps closer. Keith can feel the increased proximity, the heat of Shiro's body, the fabric of his jeans as it rubs against the back of Keith's thighs, making him aware all over again what an exposed and vulnerable position he's in. He shifts from foot to foot, nervous, embarrassed, and whines when Shiro makes that _worse_ by pulling his ass cheeks apart to reveal more of him.

“I've been thinking about nothing else but your slutty little hole for the past few days,” Shiro says, casual. It's an obvious lie, and they both know it, but damn if it doesn't work as intended.

Keith squirms again, not even sure if he's asking for Shiro to let go, or if he's asking for more. He hopes for a finger prodding his rim, a hand around his cock, but he doesn't get either. No, Shiro briefly lets go with one hand and Keith can hear him pull down his zipper, and when it returns it's to hold Keith open so that Shiro can rub _his_ erection up and down his cleft. He moans, and Keith's grip on the counter turns white-knuckled because he needs friction, he needs something inside him, he needs to be touched, _anything_ to take the edge off.

Evidently unimpressed, Shiro keeps using his body in a way that denies Keith any kind of satisfaction, and makes a show out of his enjoyment: more low moans, breathless little comments about how good it feels, his hold on Keith now damn near bruising.

He keeps that up long enough that Keith starts when Shiro lines up, cockhead pushing at Keith's rim. Not inside yet, not without any kind of lube _or_ preparation. But the threat of it, or the promise, is enough to make Keith's breathing stutter.

And he wants it. If this is how it's going to be, he's on board. He's so desperate for it, abandoned cock aching with the need for release, that he'll take a little pain and discomfort to get there. He can't even imagine waiting much longer, let alone moving this to the bedroom, with all the mental effort that would take.

“Just do it,” he begs. “Do it here. Use spit. I'm sure we both still have condoms in our wallets. I want you in me, and I want you _now_.”

“Yeah, I don't think so.” Shiro squeezes his ass, just this side of painful in wordless reprimand, and steps away. “Stay there. Don't move. I'll be right back.”

And so he stands there, bent over his own kitchen counter, pants and underwear around his ankles, shirt rucked up, hard cock leaking against his stomach, legs apart and ass pushed out, and _waits_. He's a little embarrassed – the position is so needy, so open – but he doesn't move a muscle.

He listens intently for the sound of Shiro's footfalls, first walking away, then disappearing, and finally approaching him again. But he still jumps in surprise when Shiro touches the inside of his thigh.

“You're so desperate for it,” he says, conversationally, and slowly slides his hand further up. “All anyone's gotta do is get your cock hard, and boom, you turn into the most shameless whore.”

Keith wants to tell him that's not true, it's not _anyone_ , it's just Shiro, there's no one else in the world he'd trust enough to do this with him, to him, for him, but he's distracted by the sound of the lube bottle being capped open. Shiro doesn't bother heating the liquid up and Keith gasps with the sensation of something wet and cold against his ass, being smeared against his hole. Yet again, Shiro doesn't give him the time to catch up with the sensations that are shooting up his spine, just plunges two fingers in at once, and Keith wobbles, his legs turned into jelly on the spot. It burns, too much too soon, and it's absolutely perfect.

Already having been called shameless, he doesn't try and stop the way his body responds. He moans, deep and throaty, and rolls his hips back, rocking into the intrusion, into the slow, sweet yet agonizing rhythm of Shiro's fingers as he works him open.

“Shiro,” he pleads. “Come on.”

Some other time, the repeated begging might achieve the opposite of what he wants. But either Shiro's feeling lenient today or he's getting impatient as well. Either way, he removes his fingers, making Keith whine at the loss. The next thing Keith hears is the sound of a condom wrapper torn open, the squelch of more lube as it's poured on Shiro's hand and spread around on his cock.

He lines up and pushes in immediately, giving Keith no time to adjust, and at just the right angle. The shock and pleasure of it punches the air out of Keith's lungs. Makes him wheeze, and moan, and rake his fingernails over the surface of the counter that he's still desperately holding on to. There are a few more hard and long thrusts like that, three, four, five. Then, Shiro stills inside him.

“Do you remember the hand sign?” Shiro asks, voice gentle. This time, Keith's legs damn near do give in. He knows what that means. _Fuck_.

He raises one hand to demonstrate that he remembers, holds it up so it's in Shiro's direct field of vision, and makes a cutting motion, like one would do at their throat when trying to get someone to shut up because they're saying something stupid. The first time they used it, Keith had a giggle fit for that exact reason and killed the mood.

Shiro strokes a hand down his side in approval, making Keith shiver. It turns into a firmer grip, on both sides, coaxing him upwards. Keith gets the message, straightens up. His muscles protest the change in position, having been locked in an awkward bend until now, and Keith whines when Shiro pulls him back so they stand back to chest. He lowers one hand – the prosthetic – back down to Keith's crotch, although he doesn't take hold of him again. It just rests there, unforgiving artificial palm keeping pressure on Keith's erection. Another desperate little noise escapes Keith, and he wriggles his hips.

But Shiro's hand doesn't move. Keith suspects it won't move at all until they're done.

While Keith's attention is centered around his cock, the too-much-not-enough pressure there, Shiro's other hand wanders up his torso. Shiro flicks a nipple on his way, but that's an afterthought for both of them. The brief sensation pales in comparison to what's ahead, and Keith's breathing quickens to a rapid, exited staccato when Shiro's hand reaches his neck.

Shiro nuzzles against his ear, his jaw. “Calm down.”

His voice is soft, a little amused but also deep with arousal. Keith inhales, then exhales slowly. Shiro's right; starting this when Keith's already pitched up and panting would spoil the fun. It'd be over way too soon. He relaxes against Shiro's body, skin on skin where Keith's shirt is still riding up and Shiro's shirtless, and Keith reaches behind himself to touch, hooks his thumbs into the waistband of Shiro's boxers for something to hold onto.

Shiro's hand closes around his throat, pulling upward to slowly restrict Keith's intake of air, and for a few endless moments it doesn't even register. It's only after the first mostly futile inhale – the first time he tries to suck oxygen into his lungs and finds that hindered – that both arousal and instinctive panic racket through his body like an electric current.

Just when it gets unbearable, when Keith's lungs start to burn, Shiro lets off. Allows him to take a few deep, desperate breaths, all the while slowly stroking his prosthetic palm against Keith's dick. The latter doesn't seem the least bit impressed by the trouble the rest of his body found itself in – it's still rock hard. When he chances a glance downwards, he sees the prosthetic smeared with precome.

He doesn't have time to contemplate that sight, though, because Shiro moves his other hand up again. This time the reaction of Keith's nervous system is more immediate. He's panting. He closes his eyes, sees little spots dancing behind his eyelids. Shiro pushes them closer together and rolls his hips so that his cock, still buried deep inside Keith, brushes something pleasant, and Keith invests some of his scarce oxygen into a deep, shuddering moan.

His eyes fly open again when Shiro nips his earlobe. “Do you trust me?”

He doesn't lower his hand, but he lets up long enough for Keith to breathe out a raspy, “Yes.”

“Then you'll have to believe me when I tell you that I don't want anyone else. Ever. As long as I can have you, I'll only want to be with you.”

He pauses, finally deigns to curl the fingers of his prosthetic around Keith's dick and start stroking in earnest, accompanies that with a long, lazy thrust of his cock inside him, and Keith doesn't even know which sensation to focus on first.

Then there's Shiro's voice again, his breath warm on the skin below Keith's ear, and Keith shivers. “Got that?”

He nods, best as he can with Shiro's hand still wrapped around his neck, still constricting his airway. “Yes. Yes. _Please._ ”

He didn't even mean for the last word to slip out, didn't mean to beg. But Shiro smiles against his skin and inches his hand up again. He thrusts into Keith again, and all of it combined – the spike of pleasure, the helplessness, the dangerous yet exhilarating lack of oxygen, the unrelenting pressure around his cock – pushes Keith over the edge. He comes in messy stripes all over his stomach and the prosthetic, even feels some hit his chest and collarbone. Shiro keeps the pressure on his throat steady until Keith's done coming and slumps in Shiro's grip. Then, Shiro lets go and chases his own completion with a few quick, rough thrusts, moaning into Keith's ear as he comes.

Kissing Keith's neck again, he wraps both arms around Keith's middle, and Keith leans back against him, lets him take more of his weight. Keith's legs are wobbling a bit, and he couldn't tell whether that's from the choking or the orgasm or... everything. He allows himself a few minutes to stay like that, and then it sinks in that they're in the _kitchen_ , both still half-dressed, and he's covered in drying come. He makes a face and pulls away.

“That's one of my favorite shirts,” he complains, and hears Shiro snigger behind him.

“I'll hand-wash it for you if that'll make you happy,” Shiro quips back, then tugs at the hem to get it off and nods towards the bathroom. “On the topic of washing...” 

The shirt lands on the floor and Shiro hauls Keith closer, into his arms, then angles Keith's head up for a kiss with a hand in his hair. 

“Shower?” he asks once they've parted, and Keith nods. 

Undressing themselves the rest of the way registers as little more than a necessity, and once they're under the spray Shiro holds his arms wide open and Keith steps into the embrace, heaving a long, content sigh when Shiro hugs him close, nose in his hair and hands rubbing up and down his bare back. He presses his cheek to Shiro's chest and closes his eyes, lulled by the constant prattle of the water and Shiro's warmth. 

He almost doesn't hear it when Shiro says his name, and it's with great reluctance that he works one eye open and lifts his head. “Hm?” 

Shiro's hands on his back slow, but don't still. “Can you promise me something?” 

Fear automatically spreads in the pit of Keith's stomach, but he swallows it down and nods. “Anything.” 

“Talk to me. Ask me if you're worried about something. Don't assume.” He raises his flesh hand, the prosthetic now resting against the small of Keith's back, and gently swipes wet strands of hair out of Keith's face. “I want to know what's going on inside your head. I can put things together, sometimes, but please trust me to not get spooked if you get scared. I know you, the good and the bad, and I want _everything_. But most of all, I don't want you to suffer on your own. We're a team now, alright? Against the lies your brain throws at you, too.” 

Keith stares at him, blinking rapidly against the water that continues to rain down at them from the shower head above. “I promise,” he says, and then he can't stand it anymore, the earnest and _loving_ expression on Shiro's face, even as they talk about Keith's issues and insecurities. He averts his eyes, screws them shut, nuzzling Shiro's chest once more. Then he repeats it, against Shiro's skin, as much to reiterate as to hear himself say it again. “I'll tell you. I promise.” 

 

***

 

It's not until later, after they’ve stepped out of the shower and got dressed in something comfortable, squabbled over the TV program and managed to settle on a rerun of _The Empire Strikes Back_ , that Keith starts to relax. Having started shoulder to shoulder, Shiro's head is now resting in his lap, the rest of him stretched out with his legs hanging over the armrest. His eyes have fallen closed maybe fifteen minutes ago, and Keith can hear him snoring softly.

Hands carding through Shiro's hair, the forelock still damp from their shower, Keith doesn't realize he's crying until the fight between Vader and Luke goes a little blurry. They're good tears. Acceptance. Hope. Relief.

He can have this. No one says it's going to be easy, or that there won't be difficult times and arguments and dark moods where his brain will whisper those new lies at him. But he can have this. Shiro's right – they are a team. And he won't let this chance go to waste.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm SO sorry this took so long to complete. The latter half of 2017 was mostly me fighting my brain and a major depressive episode, and this fic is one of the things that fell by the wayside because of that. /o\

**Author's Note:**

> Find me on [tumblr](http://lostemotion.tumblr.com) or [twitter](https://twitter.com/spacenerdz).


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